0^ 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT  LOS  ANGELES 


•  * 

V 


/ 


/  • 


SONGS     AND     BALLADS 

OF 

GREATER    BRITAIN 


The  grand  power  of  poetry  is  the  interpretative  power; 
by  which  I  mean  its  power  of  so  deaUng  with  things  as  to 
awaken  in  us  a  wonderfully  full,  new,  and  intimate  sense 
of  them.  M.  Arnold. 

Poetry  is  that  which  expands,  rarefies,  raises  our  whole 
being:    without  it  man's  life  is  poor  as  beast's. 

Hazlitt. 

It  lifts  the  veil  from  the  hidden  beauty  of  the  world — 
makes  familiar  effects  to  be  as  if  they  were  not  familiar. 

Shelley. 

It  raises  the  mind  and  hurries  it  into  sublimity  by 
confusing  the  shapes  of  things  to  the  desires  of  the  soul. 

Bacon. 


SONGS  AND  BALLADS 


OF 


GREATER  BRITAIN 


COMPILED   BY 

E.    A.     HELPS 

FORMERLY    ONE    OF    H.M.    INSPECTORS    OF    SCHOOLS 


"'    »  ^  J    ..  ^  ^     <•  '■ 


LONDON   &  TORONTO 

J.    M.    DENT    &    SONS    LTD. 
NEW  YORK:   E.  P.  BUTTON   &   CO.    191 3 


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H36s 
PREFACE 


I 


^  This  volume,  in  which  poems  are  literally  brought  together 

I   from  the  ends  of  the  earth,  contains  a  selection  of  poetry  from 

^  Australia,  New  Zealand,  Canada,  South  Africa,  India,  and  the 

\^  Crown  Colonies  descriptive  of  nature,  life,  and  incident  in 

these  parts  of  the  empire. 

^      Several  motives  have  inspired  it.     It  is  an  attempt  to  bring 

^    into  closer  touch  the  Dominions,  with  a  view  to  their  better 

j^<^understanding  of  each  other's  trials,  difficulties,  and  successes. 

I^flt  is  an  attempt  also  to  make  us  at  home  realise  more  fully 

v'l^he  great  qualities  and  strenuous  lives  of  those  who  have 

'  Splayed  so  large  a  part  in  building  up  the  empire — we  may  have 

written  better  poetry,  they  have  lived  it — and  also  "  lest 

we  forget  "  to  keep  alive,  both  at  home  and  abroad,  memories 

of  the  courage,  endurance,  and  heroic  deeds  of  the  pioneers, 

and  ignore  the   debt  we  owe  to  those  who  have  proved 

worthy  sons  of  the  empire,  and  have  opened  up  so  many 

avenues  for  our  sons  and  daughters  to  a  wider,  freer  life, 

to  health  and  wealth. 

Lastly,  I  hope  this  book  will  introduce  readers  at  home  to 
poetry  which  has  a  charm  of  its  own,  due  to  its  freshness, 
originality,  viriHty,  and  variety  of  subject,  and  incidentally 
it  can  scarcely  fail  to  gi\e  its  readers  some  notion  of  the 
wealth,  beauty,  and  resources  of  various  parts  of  the 
empire. 

It  may  be  said,  too,  that  the  cultivation  of  poetry  and  the 

^    imagination  are  never  more  to  be  desired  than  when  the 

material  needs  of  growing  civilisation  tend  to  deaden  the 

higher  feelings.     It  is  then  that  the  inspiration  of  the  poet 

is  needed. 

In  designing  the  lines  which  I  should  follow  in  making 
this  selection,  I  determined  to  omit  poetry  of  the  passions 
as  being  outside  the  aims  and  scope  of  this  selection.  For 
the  same  reasons  I  omit  poetry  of  a  sacred  or  devotional 
character.  I  have,  however,  brought  together  much  patriotic, 
legendary,  and  historical  verse,  as  well  as  descriptive  lyrics 

V 


vi  Preface 

and  ballads,  and  poems  of  the  imagination;  but  I  have 
admitted  but  little  verse  of  a  humorous  character.  So  far  as 
religious  poetry  is  concerned  apparently  but  little  has  been 
written:  however,  much  of  the  poetry  to  be  found  herein 
breathes  a  spirit  of  true  religion. 

In  each  section  I  have  grouped  the  poems  according  to 
subject  as  far  as  possible. 

In  thus  confining  the  scope  of  my  field  of  selection  I  have 
no  doubt  sacrificed  some  poems  of  merit;  and  I  need  scarcely 
say  that  I  have  failed  to  cull  all  the  flowers  of  poetry  from 
the  field  of  my  research.  I  fear,  too,  that,  partly  owing  to 
my  field  of  choice  being  limited,  and  partly  to  consideration 
of  the  length  of  a  poem,  I  may  not  always  have  done  justice 
to  those  who  have  so  kindly  given  me  permission  to  include 
their  poems  in  this  volume. 

Nor  can  I  lay  claim  to  completeness;  (unfortunately  in 
the  cases  of  a  few  writers  in  Australia  and  South  Africa, 
several  examples  of  whose  work  I  particularly  wished  to 
give,  I  have  been  unable  to  obtain  permission);  doubtless, 
also,  good  work  has  escaped  my  notice.  Indeed,  this  volume 
must  be  regarded  as  giving  only  a  fairly  comprehensive 
foretaste  of  our  kinsfolk's  work  in  the  field  of  poetry. 

The  kindness  and  generosity  of  Canadian  authors  and 
publishers  is  a  happy  memory,  and  on  the  whole  Australia 
and  South  Africa  have  been  very  liberal  and  helpful  to  me. 

I  greatly  regret  that  from  want  of  space  I  am  unable  to 
include  any  of  the  charming  poetry  of  the  French  Canadians, 
Frechette,  Chapman,  and  others. 

As  regards  some  of  the  poetry  included  in  this  selection, 
it  cannot  be  said  to  be  of  the  highest  order.  Poetry  is  an 
art,  as  well  as  an  inspiration,  and  demands  study  of  quantity, 
accents,  metres,  etc.,  and  in  the  case  of  some  of  the  writers 
of  verse  in  this  volume  such  study  has  been  impossible, 
but  perhaps,  as  Home  says:  "  He  who  can  give  a  form  and 
expression  to  these  lofty  or  these  noble  manifestations  in 
a  way  that  shall  be  most  intelligible  to  the  majority,  is  he 
who  best  accomplishes  the  mission  of  a  poet." 

That  there  should  be  some  shortcomings  is  not  a  matter  for 
surprise.  Canada  has  been  in  existence  for  only  about  150 
years,  if  we  put  out  of  consideration  the  French  occupation, 
and  the  greater  part,  the  North-West  Territory,  has  been 
settled  only  in  recent  years.    Australia  has  had  a  much 


Preface  vii 

shorter  life,  and,  until  comparatively  recently,  the  conditions 
of  life  of  her  people  have  been  unfavourable  to  reflection  and 
literary  expression.  South  Africa  has  a  life-history  still 
more  unfavourable,  torn  as  she  has  been  by  the  conflict  of 
races,  the  struggles  for  ascendancy,  the  greed  of  those  who 
exploited  her  in  the  past,  and  finally  the  disruption  caused 
by  the  war.  Also,  it  has  to  be  remembered  that  its  white 
population  is  relatively  small. 

But  notwithstanding  all  these  circumstances,  poems  show- 
ing keen  appreciation  of  the  beauties  of  nature  and  spiritual 
apprehension  of  its  meaning  are  to  be  found  even  in  the  verse 
of  the  earliest  pioneers  of  civilisation,  for  instance,  in  that  of 
Charles  Mair,  Sangster,  and  McLachlan  in  Canada,  of  Harpur 
and  Gordon  in  Australia,  of  Pringle  in  South  Africa.  Indeed, 
nearly  every  early  settler  of  mind  and  education  seems  to 
have  been  potentially  a  poet.  No  doubt  the  solitary  life  and 
his  environment  conduced  to  this.  Shelley  speaks  of  "  the 
nightingale  who  sits  in  darkness  and  sings  to  cheer  its  own 
solitude  with  sweet  song." 

The  imperial  idea  evidently  permeates  the  consciousness  of 
all  the  great  parts  of  the  empire.  Romance,  as  Rudyard 
Kipling  has  abundantly  shown,  is  not  confined  to  moving 
stories  and  legends  of  the  past,  and  a  wide  field  is  opened  to 
the  imagination  in  the  birth  of  a  nation. 

There  is  abundant  evidence  of  the  influence  of  Wordsworth, 
Shelley,  Longfellow,  Mrs.  Hemans,  and  Kipling,  whose 
influence  has  appealed  perhaps  rather  too  strongly  to  the 
virile  minds  of  those  engaged  in  struggling  with  the  forces  of 
nature  or  man.  Bret  Harte,  Gordon,  and  others  also  have 
a  following,  but  in  every  age  the  poet  has  often  modelled  his 
work  more  or  less  on  that  of  his  predecessors  which  has  most 
appealed  to  him. 

Most  of  the  poems,  as  might  be  expected  coming  from  those 
dealing  with  the  stern  realities  of  life  in  overcoming  difficulties, 
are  objective  in  character.  And  the  reader  must  not  look 
for  any  highly  finished  productions  of  the  boudoir  type. 
Those  from  Austraha  and  New  Zealand  are  suggestive  of 
bush  life,  life  in  the  saddle,  sheep  or  cattle  farming:  they 
present  vivid  pictures  of  the  trials,  pleasures,  and  humours 
of  those  who  have  "  gone  through  the  mill."  As  A.  B. 
Paterson  says  of  his  poems  in  a  preface,  they  "  are  the 
records  of  wandering  years,  just  the  rude  stones  one  hears." 


viii  Preface 

The  physical  features  of  these  countries  may  easily  be 
visualised  from  these  poems;  and  it  is  noticeable  that  whilst 
much  of  the  New  Zealand  poetry  rhapsodises  over  the 
grandeur,  variety,  and  beauty  of  its  scenery,  the  Australian 
poetry  often,  as  in  Kendall's,  touches  on  the  dread  and 
mystery  of  those  barren  wastes  lying  outside  the  settled 
parts;  though  the  majority  of  the  bush  poets  strike  a  free 
and  joyful  note.  Something  of  Wordsworth's  greatness, 
which  Matthew  Arnold  attributed  to  "  the  extraordinary 
power  with  which  he  feels  the  joy  offered  to  us  in  nature," 
may,  I  think,  be  found. 

The  Canadian  poets,  a  maturer  people,  with  great  variety 
and  spaciousness  in  their  surroundings,  naturally  strike  more 
strings,  and  some  with  greater  sureness  than  the  other 
Dominions;  also  there  is  perhaps  a  more  strident  and  insistent 
note  of  pride  in  their  country  and  patriotism  than  is  to  be 
found  elsewhere.  Their  lyrics  mostly  treat  of  farming, 
lumbering,  trapping,  and  forest  clearing:  they,  too,  have  a 
picturesqueness  and  humour  all  their  own,  and  the  grandeur 
and  beauty  of  their  scenery  naturally  leads  to  lofty  flights 
and  patriotic  fervour.  Then,  too,  the  French  element 
undoubtedly  has  informed  and  infused  picturesqueness  and 
brightness  into  much  of  Canadian  literature. 

In  South  Africa  the  dominant  note  the  poets  sing  and  dwell 
upon  is  the  veld,  its  vastness,  mystery,  and  compelling 
fascination,  and  the  feelings  inspired  by  the  degraded,  half- 
civilised  natives. 

As  a  rule  what  may  be  called  the  humour  of  the  poetry  of 
the  strenuous  life  is  dry,  and  caustic  to  a  fault,  though  now 
and  then  a  little  sentiment  crops  up. 

All  the  poetry  is  redolent  of  open-air  life.  Many  whose 
poems  are  found  herein  are  men  who  have  led  a  strenuous 
life,  and  their  themes  are  familiar  ones — the  gold  fields,  the 
cattle,  the  camp,  etc.  Their  verse  comes  straight  from  the 
heart  and  deals  with  homely  tragedy  and  comedy.  It  is  often 
of  the  soil  racv,  and  shows  us  the  colonists  "  in  their  habit 
as  they  live."  To  me,  as  I  hope  to  others,  any  lack  of  "  form," 
of  grace,  of  the  power  of  perfect  expression  or  felicitous 
language  is  generally  compensated  by  the  freshness  of  the 
themes  and  the  virility  of  their  treatment.  Its  simplicity 
is  often  that  of  youth,  its  pathos  that  of  those  who 
learn  "  in  suffering  what  they  teach  in  song,"    and   some 


Preface  ix 

of  the  poems  are  the  results  of  "  the  best  and  happiest 
moments  of  the  best  and  happiest  minds."  There  is  remark- 
ably little  of  the  modern  restless  pessimistic  spirit,  or  of 
philosophic  doubt,  lack  of  faith,  or  disbelief  in  the  goodness 
of  God's  final  purpose.  The  soHtary  life  of  the  settler  seems 
to  engender  a  calmness  of  soul  and  a  spirit  of  trust  and 
resignation.  Above  all  the  poetry  is  sincere.  One  feels  that 
the  poet's  images  have  come  to  him;  that  he  has  not  been 
striving  from  any  vanity  to  call  them  forth. 

I  do  not  propose  to  attempt  to  weigh  or  contrast  the  merits 
of  the  various  writers.  In  the  first  place,  I  do  not  feel  com- 
petent to  do  so,  and,  secondly,  it  would  be  ungracious.  I 
may  say,  however,  that  among  the  Australian  poets  it  appears 
to  me  Alfred  Domett  should  rank  very  high — I  believe  he  is 
called  the  Australian  Pope — but  he  seems  to  me  to  have  the 
feeling  for  inanimate  nature  and  insight  of  Wordsworth  with 
the  romanticism  and  expression  of  Scott;  he  was  Browning's 
"  Waring."  After  him  I  should  place  Kendall,  the  spirit  of 
whose  muse  is  rather  brooding  and  melancholy.  Gordon's 
poems  must  always  deservedly  rank  high,  both  from  their 
wide  range  of  thought,  and  for  his  sympathy  with  the  horse, 
and  power  of  expressing  the  joys  of  the  saddle.  Some  recent 
writers,  however,  run  him  very  close  on  the  latter  ground. 
The  ring  of  Paterson's,  Ogilvie's,  and  Henry  Lawson's  verse 
is  full  of  vigour  and  humanity  and  true  to  the  core,  and  that 
of  Essex  Evans  is  distinguished.  It  seems  there  are  few 
women  among  the  poets  of  Australia,  or  else  I  have  not  been 
fortunate  in  discovering  them;  some  charming  poems  by 
Miss  Mackellar,  however,  have  been  granted  me.  New  Zea- 
land is  well  to  the  fore  with  the  work  of  W.  Pember  Reeves, 
Kelly,  and  the  pure  and  delicate  verse  of  Margaret  N.  Sinclair. 

Canada,  the  big  brother,  bulks  large  in  the  collection,  and 
the  earliest  poetry  is  by  no  means  the  weakest.  The  more 
modem  examples  reflect  the  majesty  and  glow  of  its  grand 
scenery  and  its  exhilarating  winter,  and  show  a  finer  per- 
ception of  the  moods  of  Nature,  more  sympathy  for  decaying 
native  races,  and  more  subtlety  and  finish.  It  would  be 
invidious  to  consider  the  rival  claims  of  its  numerous  band  of 
poets,  from  which  the  Celtic  spirit  and  imagination  are  not 
absent.  Among  the  moderns  recognised  for  distinction  are 
W.  H.  Drummond,  examples  of  whose  delightful  dialect 
poetry  I  have  been  fortunate  enough  to  secure;  J.  D.  Edgar, 


X  Preface 

Duncan  Campbell  Scott  (whose  work  seems  to  me  to  possess 
a  peculiarly  strong  quality),  C.  G.  D.  Roberts,  Dr.  A.  Watson, 
R.  W.  Kenningham,  A.  W.  H.  Eaton,  J.  N.  Baylis,  W.  Wye 
Smith,  W.  W.  Campbell,  R.  W,  Service,  R.  Stead,  and  many 
others. 

Among  the  women  the  names  of  Helena  Coleman,  Ethelwyn 
Wetherald,  Mrs.  Jean  Blewett,  Agnes  M.  Machar,  and 
Pauline  Johnson  stand  out.  One  of  the  youngest,  Marjorie 
L.  C.  Pickthall,  is  of  great  promise. 

Among  the  South  African  poets  the  work  of  John  Runcie, 
Kingsley  Fairbridge,  and  W.  Scully  is  distinguished  for  its 
insight  and  fidelity  to  nature.  I  regret  I  have  not  been 
successful  in  obtaining  more  of  Lance  Fallaw's  poems. 

I  have  experienced  considerable  difficulty  in  obtaining 
poetry  suitable  for  the  purpose  of  this  selection  from  India 
and  the  Crown  Colonies.  Many  highly  gifted  civil  servants 
have  wooed  the  Muse,  but  their  best  energies  not  unnaturally 
have  been  devoted  to  the  rendering  into  English  of  native 
poems  and  legends.  As  regards  the  lighter  verse  there  is  a 
tendency — perhaps  adopted  as  a  relief  to  the  onerous  duties 
of  office — to  treat  of  the  humorous  side  of  their  lives  and  of 
the  natives  with  whom  they  are  brought  into  contact. 

I  am  glad  to  be  able  to  give  a  few  poems  written  in  our 
language  by  natives  of  India,  Ceylon,  and  the  West  Indies, 
and  among  the  poems  by  Indians  I  would  call  attention  to 
those  of  Sarojini  Naidu  which  are  distinguished  for  their 
tender  grace,  subtlety,  and  insight. 

If,  as  I  hope  it  may,  this  volume  makes  known  to  each  other 
kindred  spirits  at  the  poles  apart;  brings  home  to  my  country- 
men a  clearer  idea  of  the  conditions  of  life,  the  character,  and 
aims  of  their  kinsfolk  in  the  Great  Dominions,  and  tends  to 
knit  closer  the  bonds  of  brotherhood  throughout  the  empire, 
I  shall  be  amply  repaid  for  my  trouble  in  compiling  this 
selection,  the  shortcomings  of  which  I  trust  all  who  have  so 
kindly  contributed  poems  will  overlook. 

I  tender  the  most  sincere  and  grateful  thanks  to  the  many 
authors  whose  names  are  given  in  the  Table  of  Contents,  for 
the  permission  so  kindly  and  generously  accorded  to  me  to 
include  some  of  their  poems  in  this  volume. 

Several  South  African  poems  included  in  this  book  are 
taken  from  the  little  volume  Veld  singers'  Verse  by  the 
courtesy  of  the  Veldsingers'  Club,  Johannesburg, 


Preface  xi 

I  am  also  greatly  indebted  to  the  following-mentioned, 
for  permission  to  include  poems  of  which  they  hold  the 
copyrights. 

Messrs.  Angus  &  Robertson,  Sydney,  for  poems  by  A.  B. 
Paterson,  Essex  Evans,  Will  Ogilvie,  Henry  Lawson,  Victor  Daley,  and 
Brunton  Stephens. 

Messrs.  Bickers  &  Son,  London,  for  a  poem  by  W.  Waddington. 

H.  Brett,  Auckland,  N.Z.,  for  a  poem  by  W.  Wills. 

The  Rev.  W.  Briggs,  Toronto,  for  poems  by  W.  Wilfred  Campbell, 
W.  Wye  Smith,  A.  N.  St.  John  Mildmay,  and  Bengough. 

Constable  &  Co.,  London,  for  a  poem  by  J.  K.  Kendall. 

E.  H.  Crouch,  Esq.,  Cambridge,  South  Africa,  for  certain  poems  from 
his  Treasury  of  South  African  Verse. 

Fisher  Unwin,  London,  for  two  poems  by  R.  W.  Service. 

W.  Garvin,  Esq.,  Orillia,  Ontario,  for  poems  by  Isabella  Valancy 
Crawford. 

Messrs.  Galloway  &  Porter,  Cambridge,  for  some  poems  from 
Echoes  from  East  to  West,  by  Roby  Datta. 

Messrs.  Gordon  &  Gotch,  Wellington,  N.Z.,  for  poems  by  Will 
Lawson. 

Messrs.  Griffith,  Farran  &  Co.,  London,  for  poems  by  C.  A. 
Sherard  and  Bathgate. 

Messrs.  Heineman,  London,  for  poems  from  The  Golden  Threshold, 
by  Sarojini  Naidu. 

Messrs.  Hunter,  Rose  &  Co.,  Toronto,  Canada,  for  permission  to  use 
any  copyright  work  of  theirs. 

W.  D.  Lighthall,  Esq.,  K.C.,  Montreal,  for  certain  poems  from 
Songs  of  the  Great  Dominion. 

John  Lovell  &  Son,  Montreal,  for  poems  from  books  published  by 
them, 

Messrs.  A.  H.  Massina  &  Co.,  Melbourne,  for  poems  by  Adam 
Lindsay  Gordon,  of  which  they  hold  the  copyright. 

Messrs.  Macmillan  &  Co.,  Ltd.,  London,  for  a  poem  from  Silver- 
leaf  and  Oak,  by  Lance  Fallow. 

T.  Maskew  Miller,  Cape  Town,  South  Africa,  for  a  poem  from 
Martin  Foote's  Cutting  Capers. 

Messrs.  Methuen  &  Co.,  London,  for  The  White  Man's  Burden,  by 
R.  Kipling. 

Messrs.  G.  P.  Putnams  Sons,  New  York  and  London,  for  poems 
from  Dr.  Drummond's  fohnny  Corteau,  and  The  Habitant. 

Mrs.  Theodore  Rand,  Wolfville,  Nova  Scotia,  for  permission  to 
quote  poems  from  The  Treasury  of  Canadian  Verse. 


xii  Preface 

Messrs.  W.  Rider  &  Sons,  London,  for  poems  from  R.  Greentree's 
Poems  of  the  Malay  Peninsula. 

Messrs.  Robertson  &  Co.,  Melbourne,  Australia,  for  poems  by 
Henry  Clarence  Kendall. 

Messrs.  G.  Routledge  &  Sons,  London,  for  poems  by  Sir  Alfred 
Conyer  Lyall. 

The  Walter  Scott  Publishing  Co.,  London  and  Felling-on-Tyne, 
for  certain  poems  from  A  Century  of  Australian  Song. 

Elliot  Stock,  Publisher,  London,  for  poems  from  Lays  of  the  True 
North. 

"  The  Spectator,"  London,  for  a  poem  by  Dorothea  Mackellar. 

Messrs.  W.  Thacker  &  Co.,  London,  for  a  poem  from  f.ays  of  Ind, 
by  Aliph  Cheem,  cind  poems  from  Ballads  of  Burma,  by  M.  C.  Conway 
Poole. 

The  New  Zealand  Times  Co.,  for  a  poem  from  Laughter  and  Tears, 
by  Frank  Morton. 

E.  A.  HELPS. 

London,  1912. 


THE  WHITE  MAN'S  BURDEN 

Take  up  the  White  Man's  burden — 

Send  forth  the  best  ye  breed — 
Go  bind  your  sons  to  exile 

To  serve  your  captive's  need  ; 
To  wait  in  heavy  harness 

On  fluttered  folk  and  wild — 
Your  new-caught,  sullen  peoples, 

Half  devil  and  half  child. 

Take  up  the  White  Man's  burden — 

In  patience  to  abide. 
To  veil  the  threat  of  terror 

And  check  the  show  of  pride  ; 
By  open  speech  and  simple, 

An  hundred  times  made  plain, 
To  seek  another's  profit, 

And  work  another's  gain. 

Take  up  the  White  Man's  burden — 

The  savage  wars  of  peace — 
Fill  full  the  mouth  of  Famine 

A  nd  bid  the  sickness  cease  ; 
And  when  your  goal  is  nearest 

The  end  for  others  sought. 
Watch  Sloth  and  heathen  Folly 

Bring  all  your  hope  to  nought. 

Take  up  the  White  Man's  burden — 

No  tawdry  rule  of  kings, 
But  toil  of  serf  and  sweeper — 

The  tale  of  common  things. 
The  ports  ye  shall  not  enter, 

The  roads  ye  shall  not  tread. 
Go  make  them  with  your  living. 

And  mark  them  with  your  dead. 
xiii 


xiv  The  White  Man's  Burden 

Take  up  the  White  Man's  burden — 

And  reap  his  old  reward  : 
The  blame  of  those  ye  better. 

The  hate  of  those  ye  guard — 
The  cry  of  hosts  ye  humour 

{Ah  slowly  !)  towards  the  light: — 
"  Why  brought  ye  us  from  bondage, 

Otir  loved  Egyptian  night  ?  " 

Take  up  the  White  Man's  burden — 

Ye  dare  not  stoop  to  less — 
Nor  call  too  loud  on  Freedom 

To  cloak  from  weariness  ; 
By  all  ye  cry  or  whisper, 

By  all  ye  leave  or  do. 
The  silent,  sullen  peoples 

Shall  weigh  your  god  and  you. 

Take  up  the  White  Man's  burden — 

Have  done  with  childish  days— 
The  lightly  proffered  laurel. 

The  easy  ungriidged  praise. 
Comes  now,  to  search  from  manhood 

Through  all  the  thankless  years. 
Cold,  edged  with  dear-bought  wisdom, 

The  judgment  of  your  peers  ! 

RuDYARD  Kipling. 


CONTENTS 


CANADIAN  AUTHORS 
Professor  WILLIAM  TALBOT  ALLISON,  Winnipeg. 


Cartier  arrives  at  Stadacona 
At  a  Toboggan  Meet 

SAMUEL  MATHEWSON  BAYLIS, 
Montreal    .... 
The  Music  of  the  Reel 

Mrs.  jean  BLEWETT,  Toronto. 
Quebec       .... 
Song  of  the  Golden  Sea 
A  Good  Woman 


The  Amber  Army 

Montreal. 

Camp  and  Lamp 


The  Cornflower 
Heart  Songs 


PAGE 


II 
no 


i8 
57 

i8 
1x6 
163 


The  Rev.  W.  WILFRED  CAMPBELL,  New  Brunswick. 


Lake  Huron 
Vapour  and  Blue 

E.  J.  CHAPMAN 

Lake  Scene  in  Western  Canada 

HELENA  COLEMAN,  Ontario. 
Night  among  the  Thousand  Isles 

On  the  Trail 

Forest  Tragedy  . 

Among  the  Pines 

The  PeUcan 

Dawn 

The  Prospector  . 

ANNIE  ROTHWELL  CHRISTIE. 
The  Woman's  Part 

ALMA  F.  McCOLLUM. 
Why  Blossoms  Fall 

ISABELLA  VALANCY  CRAWFORD. 

Song  of  the  Axe 

The  Deacon  and  His  Daughter 

La  Blanchisseuse 

The  Farmer's  Daughter  Cherry     . 

Rev.  H.  F.  DARNELL. 

The  Maple  .... 

XV 


Lake  Lyrics 


The  Snake  Witch  and 
Other  Poems 

Songs     and     Sonnets 
(A.  Briggs,  Toronto) 


T.    Rand's    Treasury 
of  Canadian  Verse 


42 
42 


43 


41 

9^ 
98 

121 
132 

162 


33 


Flower    Legends    and     126 
Other  Verses 


The  Collected  Poems  of 


52 
74 
77 
79 


Dewart's  Selections  from    120 
Canadian  Poets 


\ 


XVI 


Contents 


PAGE 


J.  F.  McDonnell. 

I've  Wandered  in  the  Sunny  South 


WILLIAM  H.  DRUMMOND. 
The  Habitant's  Jubilee  Ode 
Little  Bateese     . 
Johnny  Corteau 
The  Cur6  of  Calumette 
Le  Docteur  Fiset 
De  Nice  Leetle  Canadienne 


Deuart's  Selections  from 
Canadian  Poets 

The  Habitant 
Johnny  Corteau 


The  Rev.  ARTHUR  WENTWORTH 
Puritan  Planters 
L'Isle  Saint  Croix 
Old  Wharves,  Halifax,  Nova  Scotia 
Port  Royal  .... 

Sir  JAMES  D.  EDGAR. 
Canadian  Camping  Song 
The  Canadian  Whitethroat  . 


The  Habitant 

HAMILTON  EATON. 
Acadian  Ballads 


Mrs.  S.  E.  SHERWOOD 
Sunrise  on  the  Ocean 

Hon.  T.  D.  McGEE 
Jacques  Cartier  . 


FAULKNER. 


This  Canada  of  Ours 


W.  D.  Lighthall's 
Songs  of  the  Great 
Dominion 


E.  PAULINE  JOHNSON  (Tekahionwake),  Vancouver. 


R. 


In  the  Shadows 


Harvest  Time     .... 
Silhouette  .... 

The  Quill  Worker 

The  Legend  of  Qu'Appelle  Valley  . 

KIRKLAND  KERNINGHAM. 
I'll  Follow  Jane  .... 
My  Summer  Fallow     . 
Be  Merciful  to  the  Horse 


W.  D.  Lighthall's 
Songs  of  the  Great 
Dominion 

»» 
T.    Rand's   Treasury 
of  Canadian  Verse 
Canadian  Born 


The  Khan's  Canticle 


ALEXANDER  McLACHLAN,  1820. 
Companions  in  Solitude 
Acres  of  Your  Own      .  .   '       . 

Whip-poor-Will 

Mrs.  LEPROHON,  Montreal,  1832-79. 
A  Canadian  Summer  Evening 
Canadian  Woods  in  Early  Autumn 
The  Huron  Chief's  Daughter 


W.  DOUW  LIGHTHALL, 
The  Pioneers 


K.C.,  Montreal. 

W.  D.  Lighthall's 
Songs  of  the  Great 
Dominion 


JOHN  E.  LOGAN 
The  Injun. 


(Barry  Dane),  Montreal. 


19 


82 
85 
87 
89 

93 
95 


II 

14 
16 
16 


53 
131 

163 


103 


115 
140 

141 
153 

81 

112 
165 


49 

51 

129 

III 
114 
136 

47 


132 


Contents  xvii 

PAGE 

AGNES  MAUDE  MACHAR,  Toronto. 

Dominion  Day    ....  Lays  of  the  True  North  6 

Laura  Secord      ....                           „  23 

The  Indian  Pipe           ...                           „  123 

The  May-flower  ....                           „  124 

The  Passing  of  Clote-Scarp  .          .                           „  156 

CHARLES  MAIR. 

Missipowistic      ....         Tecumseh    and    other       34 

Canadian  Poems 
The  Pines .....  „  122 

HELEN  M.  MERRILL,  Toronto. 

Sand  Pipers        ....         The  Blue  Flower  and     128 

Other  Poems 

A.  St.  JOHN  MILDMAY,  Vancouver. 

Vancouver  ....         Sea  Room  19 

Mrs.  MOODIE. 

The  Fisherman's  Light         .         .      Dewart's  Selections  from    107 

Canadian  Poets 
The  Canadian  Herd-Boy      .         .  „  107 

Miss  MURRAY. 

How  They  Died  at  Thansi    .  .  „  20 

MARJORIE  C.  L.  PICKTHALL. 

Frost  Song  .  .  .  .  .         .         ...  118 

Swallow  Song     .  .  .  .  .....  165 

The  Shepherd  Boy       .  . 166 

The  Immortal     .  .  .  .  .....  167 

FRANK  L.  POLLOCK. 

The  Trail  of  Gold         ...  J.   Rand's    Treasury       73 

of  Canadian  Verse 
THEODORE  H.  RAND. 

From "  Song  Waves "  .         .         Song  Waves  159 

JOHN  READE,  F.R.S.C,  Montreal. 

Madeleine  de  Vercheres         .  .  W.      D.      Lighthall's       27 

Songs  of  the  Great 
Dominion 
ROBERT  REID. 

A  Song  of  Canada       ...  „  4 

C.  G.  D.  ROBERTS. 

Khartoum           ....  The  Collected  Poems  of  30 

(Constable  and  Co.) 

On  the  Creek      ....  „  98 

The  Forest  Fire  ....  „  100 

An  August  Wood  Road         .          .  „  117 
How  the   Mohawks    set    out    for 

Medoctec         ....  „  138 

Origins       .....  „  i6i 

THEODORE  ROBERTS. 

Dargai  Ridge      ....         Northland  Lyrics  30 

CAROLL  RYAN. 

The  Night  Bird 129 

b 


XVlll 


Contents 


CHARLES  SANGSTER  (1822-1893). 
The  Thousand  Isles 


W.  D.  IJghthaU's 
Songs  of  the  Great 
Dominion 


The  Rapid  .... 

Taapooka  .... 

R.  W.  SERVICE. 

The  Spell  of  the  Yukon 

The  Ballad  of  Hard-luck  Henry 

DUNCAN  CAMPBELL  SCOTT,  Ottawa. 
At  the  Cedars     .... 

The  Forsaken     .... 

The  Half-breed  Girl 

On  the  Way  to  the  Mission 

The  Rev.  FREDERICK  G.  SCOTT. 
A  Hymn  of  Empire 

The  Temple  of  the  Ages 
A  Sister  of  Charity 

KATE  B.  SIMPSON. 

Rough  Ben  .... 


The   Songs  of  a  Stir- 
dough  ( Fisher  Unwin) 


R.  C.  STEAD,  Alberta. 
Mother  and  Son 

The  Mixer  .... 

A  Prairie  Heroine 

The  Rev.  W.  WYE  SMITH,  1827. 
The  Canadians  on  the  Nile   . 

EDWARD  W.  THOMSON. 
Thunder  child's  Lament 

Dr.  albert  D.  WATSON,  Toronto. 
Niagara     ..... 

The  Fishers         .... 

ARTHUR  weir. 

The  Secret  of  the  Sanguonay 


Voyageur's  Song 

ETHELWYN  WETHERALD. 

Midday  in  Midsummer 
The  Silent  Snow 
Tree  Memories  . 
The  Indigo  Bird. 
The  Sunflowers  . 
At  Waking 

Mrs.  yule  (Pamela  Vising). 
The  Beech-nut  Gatherer 


page 
40 

102 
150 

68 
70 


New  Land  Lyrics  and 
Other  Poems 


55 

142 

145 
146 


The  Collected  Poems  of 
(Constable  and  Co.) 


T.    Rand's    Treasury 
of  Canadian  Verse 

The  Empire  Builders 


Selected  Poems 
(W.  Briggs) 


46 
64 

64 


7 
58 
61 


32 


The  Many  Mansioned    148 
House 


The  Wing  of  the  Wild 
Bird 


The     Snowflake     and 
Other  Poems 


Tangled  in  Stars 


45 
108 

43 

54 

no 
118 
119 
127 
160 
160 


Dewart's  Selection  from  105 
Canadian  Poets 


Contents 


XIX 


AUSTRALIAN  AND  NEW  ZEALAND  AUTHORS 

PAGE 

FRANCIS  W.  ADAMS,  Queensland. 

Spring  Morning  .  .  .         A  Century  of  Austra-     226 

Han  Song 

ALEXANDER  BATHGATE,  N.Z. 

Thie  Woman  in  the  Moon     .  .         Far  South  Fancies  262 

JOHN  CHRISTIE,  Dunedin,  N.Z. 

The  Ruined  Homestead        .  .         Offerings,  1909  224 

VICTOR  DALEY  {d.  1905). 

Romance  .  .  .  .         At  Dawn  and  Dusk         213 

ALFRED  DOMETT,  N.Z.  (1811-1887). 

The  Island  ....         Ranolf  and   A  niohia,     236 

A  South   Sea  Day 
Dream 

Tangi „  239 

The  Storm  ....  „  239 

The  Legend  of  the  Tawhaki  .  ,,  241 

Amohia's  Flight  ...  ,,  244 

GUY  EDEN. 

Camp  Fire  Musings     .  .  .  Bush  Ballads,  igoi  206 

The  Stockrider   ....  „  208 

The  Water- Bellow       ...  „  210 

GEORGE  ESSEX  EVANS. 

The  Women  of  the  West      .  .         The   Secret   Key   and     216 

Other  Verses 

DUGALD  FERGUSON,  N.Z. 

The  Upper  DarUng      .  .  .         Poems  of  the  Heart  230 

Mrs.  LALA  FISHER,  Sydney. 

The  Reaper         .  .  .  .  .....     226 

A.  LINDSAY  GORDON  (1833-1870). 

The  Sick  Stockrider    .  .  .         Bush      Ballads      and  186 

Galloping  Rhymes 

Wolf  and  Hound  ...  „  189 

From  the  Wreck  ...  ,,  192 

Whisperings  in  Wattle  Boughs      .  ,,  195 

HENRY  KENDALL  (1841-1882). 

Christmas  Creek           .          .          .          .....  173 

The  Hut  bv  the  Black  Swamp I75 

The  Warrigal 178 

After  Many  Years        .          . i79 

J.  LIDDELL  KELLY,  N.Z. 

Old  New  Zealand         .  .  .  Heather  and  Fern  232 

The  Moa „  258 

Tahiti „  259 

The  Taniwha      ....  „  261 

HENRY  LAWSON. 

The  Christ  of  the  "  Never  "  .  Verse     Popular    and     205 

Humorous  (Angus 
Robertson  and  Co., 
Sydney) 


XX 


Contents 


WILL  LAWSON,  Wellington,  N.Z. 
The  Mails  .... 

When  the  Guns  go  into  Battle 
The  Cattle  Boats 

DOROTHEA  MACKELLAR. 

Settlers      ..... 
September  .... 

Colour        ..... 

ARTHUR  PACHETT  MARTIN. 

Babylon     ..... 

The  Cynic  of  the  Woods 

Over  the  Sea      .... 

ELEANOR  E.  MONTGOMERY  (The  Sin 
To  One  in  England 

FRANK  MORTON,  Wellington,  N.Z. 
The  Ship    ..... 

WILL  OGILVIE. 

Hearts  of  Gold  .... 

A.  B.  PATERSON. 

With  French  to  Kimberley  . 
Saltbush  Bill      . 


PAGE 

Stockin'     and     Other     198 
Poems,  1909 


200 
203 

The  Spectator 

227 
228 
229 

The    Withered    Jester 
and  Other  Poems 
I) 

7t 

217 

218 
218 

GiNG  Shepherd),  N.Z. 
A  Century  of  Austra- 
lian Song 

231 

Laughter  and  Tears 

224 

Hearts  of  Gold  (Angus 
Robertson) 

196 

Rio  Grande's  Last  Race 
The  Man  from  Snowy 

181 
183 

River 


MARY  H.  POYNTER. 
Slumber  Song     . 


N.Z. 


W.  PEMBER  REEVES, 
New  Zealand  (1893)     . 
A  Colonist  in  his  Garden 
The  Passing  of  the  Forest    . 

MARGARET  A.  SINCLAIR,  Auckland, 
The  Low  Lintel 

Pohutukawa       .... 
Manuka     ..... 
My  Little  Maori  Axe  of  Jade 
Comparison         .... 
A  Legend  of  Hinemoa 

J.  BRUNTON  STEPHENS. 
The  Dominion 

MARGARET  THOMAS. 
Death  in  the  Bush 

GARNET  WALCH. 
Wool  is  Up 

Wool  is  Down     . 

A.  R.  WILLS,  N.Z. 
New  Zealand 


A  Century  of  Austra- 
lian Song 

A  Little  Tin  Plate  and 
Other  Poems,  1843 


260 


. 

234 

. 

247 



250 

N.Z. 

The  Huiai  Homeland 

253 

and  Other  Verse,  1897 

253 

255 

256 

257 

263 

The  Poetical  Works  of     171 


A     Bunch     of     Wild 
Pansies 


231 

220 

222 

235 


Contents 


XXI 


SOUTH  AFRICAN  AUTHORS 


Mrs.  BEATRICE  ALLHUSEN. 
The  Cemetery  of  the  Veld  . 

Mrs.  MARY  BYRON. 
The  Call  of  the  Veld  . 

HUGH  J.  EVANS. 
My  Love  Karin 


Veldsingers'  Verse 


PAGE 


306 


282 


308 


KINGSLEY  FAIRBRIDGE,  Cambridge,  S.A. 


The  Pioneer        .... 

Veld  Verse  and  Other 
Lines 

293 

The  Hunting  of  Shumba 
Umfeti,  the  Witch  Doctor    . 
The  Bastard       .... 
Song  of  the  Africander  Woman     . 
Fear           ..... 

294 
295 
298 
300 
302 

LANCE  FALLAW. 

The  Spirit  of  Hidden  Places 

Silver  Leaf  and  Oak 

283 

HENRY  MARTYN  FOOT. 

Shadow     .          .          .          ,          . 

Cutting  Capers 

313 

PERCEVAL  GIBBON. 

The  Veldt          .                   .         . 

E.        H.        Crouch's 
Treasury   of  South 
African  Poetry  and 
Verse 

304 

CULLEN  GOULDSBURY. 
The  Pace  of  the  Ox     . 

"  MOME." 
Picket 

H.  WOODHOUSE  NEALE. 
The  Kapji  Blue 

THOMAS  PRINGLE. 

Afar  in  the  Desert 
The  Coranna 


JOHN  RUNCIE. 

A  Vision  and  a  Cry 

A  Song  in  Season 

Little  Thornback 

Paul  Kruger 

Old  Kimberley  Days 

Adventure 


W.  C.  SCULLY,  Port  Elizabeth. 
Namaqualand     . 
'Nkongane 
The  Bushman's  Cave 
Two  Graves 
Song  of  the  Seasons 


Veldsingers'  Verse 


Songs  by  the  Steep 


314 

307 

307 

284 
286 


271 
274 

275 
276 
277 
280 


286 
287 
288 
290 
292 


xxii  Contents 

PAGE 

F.  C.  SLATER. 

"  Lala, 'Sana  Lwam ! "         .  .         E.        H.        Crouch's     310 

Treasury  of  South 
African  Poetry  and 
Verse 

In  the  Matoppos  ...  „  311 

AMY  SUTHERLAND. 

The  Digger's  Song       .  .  .         .E.        H.         Crouch's     312 

Treasury    of  South 
African  Poetry  and 
Verse 
"  SNEYD." 

Katrina     .....  Veldsingers'  Verse  309 

FRANCES  ERNLEY  VVALROND. 

South  Africa       ....  „  272 

EAST  AND  WEST  INDIAN  AUTHORS 

ALIPH  CHEEM. 

Perfide  Albion    ....         ./{lysoflnd  336 

ROBY  DATTA. 

Good  and  Bad  Thoughts       .  .  Echoes  from  East  and     323 

West,  1905  (from  the 

Dhammapada) 
Songs  of  Ind        ....         Echoes  from  East  and     323 

West    [from     Roby 

Tagore) 
On  Tibet 324 

HENRY  LOUIS  VIVIAN  DEROZIO. 

On  the  AboUtion  of  Suttee  . 317 

J.  K.  KENDALL  (DumDum). 

The  Shores  of  Nothing  .  .         Rhymes  of  the  East  342 

Kal  ....  „  343 

Right  Hon.  Sir  ALFRED  COMYN  LYALL. 

The  Hindu  Ascetic       .  .  .  Verses  written  in  India    320 

SAROJINI  NAIDU. 

The  Purdah  Nashin     .  .  .  The  Golden  Threshold  321 

Suttee        .....  „  321 

Nightfall  in  the  City  of  Hyderabad  „  322 

The  Indian  Gipsy        ...  „  322 

C.  W.  WADDINGTON. 

Cawnpore  ....         Indian  Nile  3 19 

WILLIAM  WATERFIELD,  Bengal  C.S. 

Song  of  Kcilindi  .  .  .         Indian  Ballads,  1885       325 

The  Lamentation  of  Aga      .  .  „  327 

R.  GRANT  BROWN,  Burma. 

A  Lover's  Lament        .  .  .  Translations  of   Bur-     329 

mese  Songs 
In  the  Forest      ....  „  329 

Love-Ditty         ....  „  330 


Contents 


XXlll 


M.  C.  CONWAY  POOLE  (Oolay). 
Vale!  .... 

Audi  et  Alteram  Partem 
A  Lay  of  the  Derby  Sweep  . 


Ballads  of  Burma 


PAGE 

330 
331 
333 


JAMAICA 


HENRY  SHIRLEY  BUNBURY. 
The  West  Indies 
The  Joys  of  Jamaica   . 

J.  H.  MACDERMOT  (Tom  Redcam) 
The  Mothers  of  the  City 

CLAUDE  McKAY. 
KiUin'  Nanny     . 
Cudjoe  Fresh  from  de  Lecture 

"TROPICA." 

The  North  to  the  South 

The  South  to  the  North 


352 

352 

Kingston. 

Songs  of  Kingston  City  353 


Songs  of  Jamaica 


356 

357 


This    Island  of  Sun-     355 
shine 

356 


CEYLON 


BEL. 

The  Taj  at  Agra 


E.  C.  DUMBLETON. 
The  Tamil  Maid 

S.  HELEN  GOONETILLAKE. 
A  Sanskrit  Stanza 

H.  W.  GREEN,  Ceylon  C.S. 
Ganessa  the  God 


WILLIAM  SKEEN,  Colombo,  1868. 
Lanka  (Ceylon) 
The  Knuckles     . 


J.  H.  S. 

By  Kandy  Lake. 


R.  GREENTREE,  Malay  States. 
KrSmat     .... 

Malacca     .... 


T.       J.       Tambyah's     348 
Garland  of   Ceylon 
Verse 

349 

350 

T.       J,       Tambyah's     348 
Garland   of  Ceylon 
Verse 


344 

Mountain     Life    and     345 
Coffee      Cultivation 
in  Ceylon 

T.       J.       Tambyah's     347 
Garland   of  Ceylon 
Verse 


Poems    of  the  Malay     350 
Peninsula 

351 


CANADIAN    POETRY 


CANADIAN    POETRY 


A  HYMN  OF  EMPIRE 

Lord,  by  whose  might  the  Heavens  stand, 

The  source  from  whom  they  came, 
Who  holdeth  nations  in  Thy  hand, 

And  call'st  the  stars  by  name. 
Thine  ageless  forces  do  not  cease 

To  mould  us  as  of  yore — 
The  chiselling  of  the  arts  of  peace, 

The  anvil  strokes  of  war. 

Then  bind  our  realms  in  brotherhood, 

Firm  laws  and  equal  rights, 
Let  each  uphold  the  Empire's  good 

In  freedom  that  unites; 
And  make  that  speech  whose  thunders  roll 

Down  the  broad  stream  of  time, 
The  harbinger  from  pole  to  pole 

Of  love  and  peace  sublime. 

Lord,  turn  the  hearts  of  cowards  who  prate. 

Afraid  to  dare  or  spend. 
The  doctrine  of  a  narrower  state 

More  easy  to  defend ; 
Not  this  the  watchword  of  our  sires 

Who  breathed  with  Ocean's  breath. 
Not  this  our  spirit's  ancient  fires 

Which  naught  could  quench  but  death. 

Strong  are  we?     Make  us  stronger  yet; 

Great  ?     Make  us  greater  far. 
Our  feet  Antarctic  Oceans  fret. 

Our  crown  the  polar  star; 
Round  Earth's  wild  coasts  our  batteries  speak. 

Our  highway  is  the  main, 
We  stand  as  guardian  of  the  weak, 

We  burst  the  oppressor's  chain. 
3 


A  Song  of  Canada 

Great  God,  uphold  us  in  our  task, 

Keep  firm  and  clear  our  rule, 
Silence  the  honeyed  words  which  mask 

The  wisdom  of  the  fool. 
The  pillars  of  the  world  are  thine; 

Pour  down  thy  bounteous  grace, 
And  make  illustrious  and  divine 

The  sceptre  of  our  race. 

Frederick  George  Scott. 


A  SONG  OF  CANADA 

Sing  me  a  song  of  the  Great  Dominion! 
Soul-felt  words  for  a  patriot's  ear  1 
Ring  out  boldly  the  well-turned  measure, 
Voicing  your  notes  that  the  world  may  hear; 
Here  is  no  starveling — heaven  forsaken — 
Shrinking  aside  where  the  nations  throng; 
Proud  as  the  proudest  moves  she  among  them- 
Worthy  is  she  of  a  noble  song ! 

Sing  me  the  might  of  her  giant  mountains, 
Baring  their  brows  in  the  dazzling  blue; 
Changeless  alone,  when  all  else  changes. 
Emblems  of  all  that  is  grand  and  true : 
Free  as  the  eagle  around  them  soaring; 
Fair  as  they  rose  from  their  Maker's  hand; 
Shout  till  the  snow-caps  catch  the  chorus — 
The  white-tipped  peaks  of  our  mountain  land ! 

Sing  me  the  calm  of  her  tranquil  forests, 
Silence  eternal,  and  peace  profound, 
Into  whose  great  heart's  deep  recesses 
Breaks  no  tempest  and  comes  no  sound; 
Face  to  face  with  the  deathlike  stillness. 
There,  if  at  all,  a  man's  soul  might  quail: 
Nay!  'tis  the  love  of  that  great  peace  leads  us 
Thither,  where  solace  will  never  fail ! 

Sing  me  the  pride  of  her  stately  rivers. 
Cleaving  their  way  to  the  far-off  sea; 


A  Song  of  Canada 

Glory  of  strength  in  their  deep-mouthed  music — 
Glory  of  mirth  in  their  tameless  glee. 
Hark !  'tis  the  roar  of  the  tumbling  rapids ; 
Deep  unto  deep  through  the  dead  night  calls; 
Truly,  I  hear  but  the  voice  of  Freedom 
Shouting  her  name  from  her  fortress  walls ! 

Sing  me  the  joy  of  her  fertile  prairies, 
League  upon  league  of  the  golden  grain : 
Comfort  housed  in  the  smiling  homestead — 
Plenty,  throned  on  the  lumbering  wain. 
Land  of  Contentment!     May  no  strife  vex  you. 
Never  war's  flag  on  your  plains  unfurl'd 
Only  the  blessings  of  mankind  reach  you — 
Finding  the  food  for  a  hungry  world ! 

Sing  me  the  charm  of  her  blazing  camp-fires ; 
Sing  me  the  quiet  of  her  happy  homes, 
Whether  afar  'neath  the  forest  arches, 
Or  in  the  shade  of  the  city's  domes; 
Sing  me  her  life,  her  loves,  her  labours, 
All  of  a  mother  a  son  would  hear; 
For  when  a  lov'd  one's  praise  is  sounding. 
Sweet  are  the  strains  to  a  lover's  ear ! 

Sing  me  the  worth  of  each  Canadian, 
Roamer  in  wilderness,  toiler  in  town — 
Search  earth  over  you'll  find  no  stauncher. 
Whether  his  hands  be  white  or  brown; 
Come  of  a  right  good  stock  to  start  with. 
Best  of  the  world's  blood  in  each  vein; 
Lords  of  ourselves,  and  slaves  to  no  one. 
For  us,  or  from  us,  you'll  find  we're — MEN. 

Sing  me  the  song,  then;  sing  it  bravely; 
Put  your  soul  in  the  words  you  sing; 
Sing  me  the  praise  of  this  glorious  country — 
Clear  on  the  ear  let  the  deep  notes  ring. 
Here  is  no  starveling — heaven-forsaken — 
Crouching  apart  where  the  nations  throng; 
Proud  as  the  proudest  moves  she  among  them — 
Well  is  she  worthy  a  noble  song ! 

Robert  Reid. 


Dominion    Da 


y 


DOMINION  DAY 

WiTV[/eu-de-joie ,Sind  merry  bells,  and  cannons'  thundering  peal, 
And  pennons  fluttering  on  the  breeze,  and  serried  rows  of 

steel, 
We  greet,  again,  the  birthday  morn  of  our  young  giant's  land. 
From  the  Atlantic  stretching  wide  to  far  Pacific  strand; 
With  flashing  river,  ocean  lakes,  and  prairies  wide  and  free, 
And  waterfalls,  and  forests  dim,  and  mountains  by  the  sea; 
A  country  on  whose  birth-hour  smiled  the  genius  of  romance. 
Above  whose  cradle  brave  hands  waved  the  lily-cross  of 

France ; 
Whose  infancy  was  grimly  nursed  in  peril,  pain,  and  woe; 
Where  gallant  hearts  found  early  graves  beneath  Canadian 

snow; 
Where  savage  raid  and  ambuscade  and  famine's  sore  distress, 
Combined  their  strength,  in  vain,  to  crush  the  dauntless 

French  noblesse; 
When  her  dim  trackless  forest  lured,  again,  and  yet  again. 
From  silken  courts  of  sunny  France,  her  flower,  the  brave 

Cham  plain. 
And  now  her  proud  traditions  boast  from  blazoned  rolls  of 

fame — 
Crecy's  and  Flodden's  deadly  foes  our  ancestors  we  claim; 
Past  feud  and  battle  buried  far  behind  the  peaceful  years, 
While  Gaul  and  Celt  and  Briton  turn  to  pruning  hooks  their 

spears; 
Four  nations  welded  into  one — with  long  historic  past, 
Have  found,  in  these  our  western  wilds,  one  common  life  at 

last; 
Through  the  young  giant's  mighty  limbs,  that  stretch  from 

sea  to  sea, 
There  runs  a  throb  of  conscious  life — of  waking  energy. 
From  Nova  Scotia's  misty  coast  to  far  Columbia's  shore, 
She  wakes — a  band  of  scattered  homes  and  colonies  no  more. 
But  a  young  nation,  with  her  life  full  beating  in  her  breast, 
A  noble  future  in  her  eyes — the  Britain  of  the  West. 
Heir  to  the  noble  task  to  fill  the  yet  untrodden  plains 
With  fruitful,  many-sided  life  that  courses  through  her  veins; 
The  English  honour,  nerve,  and  pluck — the  Scotsman's  love 

of  right — 


Mother  and  Son  7 

The  grace  and  courtesy  of  France, — the  Irish  fancy  bright, — 
The  Saxon's  faithful  love  of  home,  and  home's  affections 

blest ; 
And  chief  of  all  our  holy  faith — of  all  our  treasures  best. 
A  people  poor  in  pomp  and  state,  but  rich  in  noble  deeds, 
Holding  that  righteousness  exalts  the  people  it  leads. 
As  yet  the  waxen  mould  is  soft,  the  opening  page  is  fair; 
It  rests  with  those  who  rule  us  now  to  leave  the  impress  there, 
The  stamp  of  true  nobility,  high  honour,  stainless  truth; 
The  earnest  quest  of  noble  ends ;  the  generous  heart  of  youth ; 
The  love  of  country,  soaring  far  above  dull  party  strife; 
The  love  of  learning,  art,  and  song — the  crowning  grace  of 

life; 
The  love  of  science,  soaring  far  through  Nature's  hidden  ways ; 
The  love  and  fear  of  Nature's  God — a  nation's  highest  praise. 
So  in  the  long  hereafter,  this  Canada  shall  be 
The  worthy  heir  of  British  power  and  British  liberty; 
Spreading  the  blessings  of  her  sway  to  her  remotest  bounds. 
While,  with  the  fame  of  her  fair  name,  a  continent  resounds, 
True  to  her  high  traditions,  to  Britain's  ancient  glory 
Of  patient  saint  and  martyr,  alive  in  deathless  story; 
Strong  in  their  liberty  and  truth,  to  shed  from  shore  to  shore 
A  light  among  the  nations,  till  nations  are  no  more. 

Agnes  Maude  Machar. 


MOTHER  AND  SON 

The  mother  was  rich  and  gracious,  and  the  son  was  strong 

and  bold. 
And  the  bond  that  was  fixed  between  them  was  not  the  bond 

of  gold ; 
And  they  dwelt  in  sweet  co-union,  while  the  world  looked  on 

in  awe, 
For  they  lived  and  wrought  by  the  Law  of  Love,  and  not  by 

the  Love  of  Law. 

The  mother  was  old  in  the  years  of  man,  but  young  in  the 

years  of  time. 
And  her  face  was  fair  and  her  arm  was  strong  as  a  strong  man 

in  his  prime; 


8  Mother  and  Son 

And   some  who  said,   "  She    weakens,  her  day  is  nearly 

done," 
So  spake  because  they  wished  it ;  her  day  was  scarce  begun. 
And  the  mother  said,  "  I  have  given  you  much,  good  gifts  of 

honest  worth, 
A  name  that  is  known  and  honoured  in  the  corners  of  the 

earth ; 
A  tongue  that  is  strong  and  elastic,  a  law  that  is  just  and 

sound. 
And  the  right  of  a  man  to  be  a  man  wherever  my  flag  is 

found. 

"  The  paths  go  down  to  the  future,  and  the  paths  are  yours 

to  choose, 
There's  all  for  you  to  profit,  there's  all  for  you  to  lose — 
For  the   eye  of  the  race  is  onward,  nor  yet  is  the  law 

recast. 
That  youth  shall  live  in  the  future,  and  age  shall  live  in  the 

past." 

On  the  swarthy  cheek  of  the  stalwart  son  there  deepened  a 

dye  of  shame — 
"  Mother,  were  I  so  base  I  should  belie  my  mother's  name. 
The  road  may  lead  to  the  mountain-tops,  or  the  nethermost 

depths  of  hell; 
Even  so;  and  if  so  you  travel  it,  I  travel  the  road  as  well. 

"  Ere  yet  I  had  learned  in  a  foreign  tongue  to  babble  your 

name  with  pride. 
They  thought  in  the  guise  of  a  common  cause  to  wheedle  me 

from  your  side, 
But  I  scorned  the  bribe  of  lust  and  power — for  I  read  the 

rogues  aright — 
And  I  fought  for  you  in  my  swaddling-clothes,  as  only  a  child 

can  fight ! 

"  'Twas  not  for  my  own  existence — I  had  no  fear  for  that — 
For  I  was  lean  and  unlikely,  and  they  were  full  of  fat; 
But  the  blood — and  the  sense  of  honour — and  the  duty  of 

the  son — 
'Twas  these  that  clutched  at  a  weapon  and  battled  them  ten 

to  one ! 


Jacques  Cartier  9 

"  Think  not  because  life  is  rosy  that  I  know  not  what  it  cost — 

I  knew  when  I  fell  to  the  Ridgeway  fiends,  or  lay  in  the  North- 
shore  frost; 

I  knew  in  the  flush  of  triumph — I  knew  when  I  fought  in 
vain — 

And  the  blood  that  was  spilled  at  Paardeberg  was  the  blood 
of  Lundy's  Lane ! 

"  Then  lead,  and  your  son  will  follow,  or  follow  and  he  will 

lead. 
And  side  by  side,  though  the  world  deride,  we  will  show  by 

word  and  deed, 
That  you  share  with  me  my  youthfulness,  and  I  with  you 

your  prime. 
And  so  it  shall  be  till  the  sun  shall  set  on  the  uttermost  edge 

of  time." 

R.  C.  Stead. 


JACQUES  CARTIER 

In  the  seaport  of  Saint  Malo  'twas  a  smiling  morn  in  May, 
When  the  Commodore  Jacques  Cartier  to  the  westward  sailed 

away; 
In  the  crowded  old  cathedral  all  the  town  were  on  their  knees 
For  the  safe  return  of  kinsmen  from  the  undiscovered  seas; 
And  every  autumn  blast  that  swept  o'er  pinnacle  and  pier 
Filled  manly  hearts  with  sorrow,  and  gentle  hearts  with  fear. 

A  year  passed  o'er  Saint  Malo — again  came  round  the  day 
When  the  Commodore  Jacques  Cartier  to  the  westward  sailed 

away; 
But  no  tidings  from  the  absent  had  come  the  way  they  went. 
And  tearful  were  the  vigils  that  many  a  maiden  spent; 
And  manly  hearts  were  filled  with  gloom,  and  gentle  hearts 

with  fear 
WTien  no  tidings  came  from  Cartier  at  the  closing  of  the  year. 

But  the  earth  is  as  the  Future,  it  hath  its  hidden  side, 
And  the  captain  of  Saint  Malo  was  rejoicing  in  his  pride 
In  the  forests  of  the  North — while  his  townsmen  mourned 
his  loss, 


lo  Jacques   Cartier 

He  was  rearing  on  Mount  Royal  the  Fleur-de-lis  and  Cross ; 
And  when  the  months  were  over,  and  added  to  the  year, 
Saint  Malo  hailed  him  home  again,  cheer  answering  to  cheer. 

He  told  them  of  a  region,  hard  iron-bound  and  cold, 
Nor  seas  of  pearls  abounded,  nor  mines  of  shining  gold. 
Where  the  wind  from  Thulc  freezes  the  word  upon  the  lip. 
And  the  ice  in  spring  comes  sailing  athwart  the  early  ship; 
He  told  them  of  the  frozen  scene  until  they  thrilled  with  fear, 
And  piled  fresh  fuel  on  the  hearth  to  make  them  better  cheer. 

But  when  he  changed  the  strain — he  told  how  soon  is  cast 
In  early  spring  the  fetters  that  hold  the  waters  fast; 
How  the  winter  causeway  broken  is  drifted  out  to  sea. 
And  the  rills  and  rivers  sing  with  pride  the  anthem  of  the 

free; 
How  the  magic  wand  of  summer  clad  the  landscape  to  his 

eyes, 
Like  the  dry  bones  of  the  just,  when  they  wake  in  paradise. 

He  told  them  of  the  Alonquin  braves — the  hunters  of  the  wild, 

Of  how  the  Indian  mother  in  the  forest  rocks  her  child; 

Of  how,  poor  souls,  they  fancy  in  every  living  thing; 

A  spirit  good  or  evil  that  claims  their  worshipping; 

Of  how  they  brought  their  sick  and  maim'd  for  him  to 

breathe  upon. 
And  of  the  wonders  wrought  for  them  thro'  the  gospel  of 

St.  John. 

He  told  them  of  the  river  whose  mighty  current  gave 
Its  freshness  for  a  hundred  leagues  to  ocean's  briny  wave; 
He  told  them  of  the  glorious  scene  presented  to  his  sight, 
What  time  he  reared  the  cross  and  crown  on  Hochelaga's 

height, 
And  of  the  fortress  cliff  that  keeps  of  Canada  the  key : 
And  they  welcomed  back  Jacques  Cartier  from  his  perils  over 

sea. 

Hon.  T.  D.  McGee. 


Puritan  Planters,  1760  11 


CARTIER  ARRIVES  AT  STADACONA 

At  Stadacona  half  the  sky 

Was  crimsoned  with  the  sunset's  dye; 

The  river  streaked  with  gold, 
The  broad  St.  Lawrence,  in  the  pride 
Of  countless  forests  by  his  tide, 

Out  to  the  ocean  rolled. 

They  stood  on  Stadacona's  steep 

And  gazed  towards  the  boundless  deep, 

Did  Donnacona's  braves; 
In  awe  they  looked,  these  savage  men, 
To  where  within  their  piercing  ken 

White  wings  flew  o'er  the  wave. 

In  wonderment  they  peered,  and  still 
The  sea's  strange  pinions  came,  until 

They  flung  full  on  the  view, 
Then  Donnacona,  he,  the  wise. 
Said  these  are  spirits  from  the  skies 

Sent  by  the  Manitou. 

The  night  crouched  in  the  flapping  sails. 
The  wind  roared  down  the  forest  trails. 

The  river  dirged  amain. 
And  Donnacona  dreamed  that  night 
The  world  through  all  the  year  was  white — 

In  sleep  he  sobbed  for  pain. 

William  T.  Allison. 


PURITAN  PLANTERS,  1760 1 

The  rocky  slopes  for  emerald  had  changed  their  garb  of  gray 
When  the  vessels  from  Connecticut  came  sailing  up  the  Bay, 
There  were  diamonds  on  every  wave  that  drew  the  strangers  on. 
And  bands  of  sapphire  mist  about  the  brows  of  Blomidon. 

^  To  commemorate  the  settlement  by  New  England  people  of  the 
French  lands,  after  the  Acadians  had  been  driven  away. 


12  Puritan  Planters,  1760 

Five  years  in  desolation  the  Acadian  land  had  lain, 

Five  golden  harvest  moons  had  wooed  the  fallow  fields  in 

vain, 
Five  times  the  winter  snows  had  slept  and  summer  sunsets 

smiled 
On  lonely  clumps  of  willow,  and  fruit  trees  growing  wild. 

There  was  silence  in  the  forest  and  along  the  Minas  Shore, 
And  not  a  habitation  from  Canard  to  Beau  Sejour, 
But  many  a  blackened  rafter  and  many  a  broken  wall 
Told  the  story  of  Acadia's  prosperity  and  fall; 

And  even  in  Nature's  gladness  in  the  matchless  month  of 

June, 
When  every  day  she  swept  her  harp  and  found  the  strmgs 

in  tune. 
The  land  seemed  calling  wildly  for  its  owners  far  away, 
The  exiles  scattered  on  the  coast,  from  Maine  to  Charlestown 

Bay. 

Where,  with  many  bitter  longings  for  their  fair  homes  and 

their  dead. 
They  bowed   their  heads   in   anguish   and   would   not   be 

comforted. 
And  like  the  Jewish  exiles,  long  ago,  beyond  the  sea. 
Refused  to  sing  the  songs  of  home  in  their  captivity. 

But  the  simple  Norman  peasant-folk  shall  till  the  land  no 

more. 
For  the  vessels  from  Connecticut  have  anchored  by  the  shore. 
And  many  a  sturdy  Puritan,  his  mind  with  scripture  stored, 
Rejoices  he  has  found  at  last  "  the  garden  of  the  Lord." 

There  are  families   from  Tolland,  from  Killingworth  and 

Lyme, 
Gentle  mothers,  tender  maidens,  and  strong  men  in  their 

prime ; 
There  are  lovers  who  have  plighted  their  vows  in  Coventry, 
And  sweet,  confiding  children,  born  in  Newport  by  the  sea. 

They  come  as  came  the  Hebrews  into  their  promised  land. 
Not  as  to  rough  New  England  shores  came  first  the  Pilgrim 
band; 


Puritan  Planters,  1760  13 

The  Minas  fields  were  fruitful,  and  the  Gaspereau  had  borne 
To  seaward  many  a  vessel  with  its  freight  of  yellow  com. 

They  came  with  hearts  as  true  as  are  their  manners  blunt 

and  cold, 
To  found  a  race  of  noble  men  of  Calvinistic  mould, 
A  race  of  earnest  people  whom  the  coming  years  shall  teach 
The  broader  ways  of  knowledge,  and  the  gentler  forms  of 

speech. 

They  come  as  Puritans,  but  who  shall  say  their  hearts  are 

blind 
To  the  subtle  charms  of  nature,  and  the  love  of  human  kind? 
The  rigorous  New  England  laws  have  shaped  their  thought, 

'tis  true, 
But  human  laws  can  never  wholly  Heaven's  work  undo. 

And  tears  fall  fast  from 'many  an  eye,  long  time  unused  to 

weep, 
For  o'er  the  fields  lie  whitening  the  bones  of  cows  and  sheep. 
The  faithful  cows  that  used  to  feed  upon  the  broad  Grand  Pre, 
And,  with  their  tinkling  bells,  come  slowly  home  at  close  of 

day. 

And  where  the  Acadian  village  stood,  its  roofs  o'ergrown 

with  moss. 
And  the  simple  wooden  chapel,  with  its  altar  and  its  cross. 
And  where  the  forge  of  Basil  sent  its  sparks  toward  the  sky. 
The  purple  thistle  blossoms,  and  the  pink  fireweed  grows  high. 


The  broken  dykes  have  been  rebuilt,  a  century  and  more. 
The  cornfields  stretch  their  furrows  from  Canard  to  Beau 

Sejour, 
Five  generations  have  been  reared  beside  the  broad  Grand  Pre, 
Since  the  vessels  from  Connecticut  came  sailing  up  the  Bay. 

And  now  across  the  meadows,  while  the  farmers  reap  and  sow. 
The  engine  shrieks  its  discord  to  the  bells  of  Gaspereau, 
And  ever  onward  to  the  sea,  the  restless  Fundy  tide 
Bears  playful  pleasure  yachts  and  busy  trade  ships  side  by 
side. 


14  L'Isle  Saint  Croix 

And  the  Puritan  has  yielded  to  the  softening  hand  of  time, 
Like  him,  who  still  content,  remained  in  Killingworth  and 

Lyme, 
And  graceful  homes  of  prosperous  men  make  all  the  landscape 

fair. 
And  mellow  creeds  and  ways  of  life  are  rooted  every^vhere. 

And  churches  nestle  lovingly  on  many  a  glad  hillside. 

And  holy  bells  ring  out  their  music  in  the  eventide; 

But  here  and  there  on  untilled  ground,  apart  from  glebe  or 

town, 
Some  lone  surviving  apple-tree  stands  blossomless  and  brown. 

And  many  a  traveller  has  found  in  summer,  as  he  strayed, 
Some  long  forgotten  cellar  in  the  deepest  thicket's  shade. 
And  clumps  of  willows  by  the  dykes,  sweet  scented,  fair,  and 

green, 
That  seemed  to  tell  again  the  story  of  Evangelme. 


L'ISLE  SAINT  CROIX 
The  first  French  settlement  in  America  was  made  here  in  1604. 

With  tangle  branches  overgrown. 
And  here  and  there  a  lofty  pine. 
Among  whose  forms  strange  creepers  twine, 

And  crags  that  mock  the  wild  seas'  moan, 

And  little  bays  where  no  ships  come, 
Though  many  a  white  sail  passes  by, 
And  many  a  drifting  cloud  on  high. 

Looks  down  and  shames  the  sleeping  foam. 

Unconscious  on  the  waves  it  lies 

While  mid  the  golden  reeds  and  sedge 
That  southward  line  the  water's  edge 

The  thrush  sings  his  shrill  melodies. 

No  human  dwelling  now  is  seen 
Upon  its  rude,  unfertile  slopes, 


L'Isle  Saint  Croix  15 

Though  many  a  summer  traveller  gropes 
For  ruins  mid  the  tangled  green^ 

And  seeks  upon  the  northern  shore 

The  graves  of  that  adventurous  band 

That  followed  to  the  Acadian  land 
Champlain^  De  Monts,  and  Poutrincourt. 

There  stood  the  ancient  fort  that  sent 
Fierce  cannon  echoes  through  the  wold, 
There  waved  the  Bourbon  flag  that  told 

The  mastery  of  a  continent ; 

There  through  the  pines  the  echoing  wail 
Of  ghostly  winds  was  heard  at  eve, 
And  hoarse,  deep  sounds  like  those  that  heave 

The  breasts  of  stricken  warriors  pale. 

There  Huguenots  and  cassocked  priests 

And  noble-born  and  sons  of  toil. 

Together  worked  the  barren  soil, 
And  shared  each  other's  frugal  feasts. 

And  dreamed  beneath  the  yellow  moon 

Of  golden  reapings  that  should  be. 

Conjuring  from  the  sailless  sea 
A  glad,  prophetic  harvest  tune. 

Till  stealthy  winter  through  the  reeds 

Crept,  crystal-footed,  to  the  shore, 

And  to  the  little  hamlet  bore 
His  hidden  freight  of  deathly  seeds. 

Spring  came  at  last,  and  o'er  the  waves, 

The  welcome  sail  of  Pontgrave 

But  half  the  number  silent  lay, 
Death's  pale  first  fruits,  in  western  graves. 

Sing  on,  wild  sea,  your  sad  refrain    . 

For  all  the  gallant  sons  of  France, 

Whose  songs  and  sufferings  enhance 
The  witchery  of  the  western  main. 


1 6  Old  Wharves 

Keep  kindly  watch  upon  the  strand 
Where  He  in  hidden  mounds,  secure, 
The  men  De  Monts  and  Poutrincourt 

First  led  to  the  Acadian  land. 


PORT  ROYAL 

About  this  ancient  earth-work  and  this  wall, 
Where  rude  spiked  gates  on  heavy  hinges  hung, 
The  shouts  of  armies  many  a  time  have  rung. 
And  thunderous  cannon  sounded  loud  o'er  alU 
Here  night  and  morn  the  echoing  bugle  call 
Close  to  the  farthest  wooded  hill-tops  clung, 
Here  with  her  lilies  to  the  breezes  flung, 
France  held  Acadia  in  romantic  thrall. 
Here  Bourbon  nobles  carved  the  fleur-de-lis, 
And  waved  the  white  flag  of  the  Bourbon  kings; 
Here  Acadie's  first  convert,  Membertou, 
The  aged  Micmac  chieftain,  bent  the  knee 
To  Christ;  and  here  on  wide-expanded  wings 
The  hostile  fleets  of  British  sovereigns  flew. 


OLD  WHARVES  (OF  HALIFAX,  NOVA  SCOTIA). 

Half  a  century  ago. 

On  the  tides  that  shoreward  swept, 
Merchant  vessels,  swift  or  slow. 

To  the  harbour  leapt  or  crept. 

From  the  fertile  Indian  Isles 
In  hot  Southern  seas  they  came. 

Over  Ocean's  countless  miles, 
With  red  sunset  fires  aflame. 

Fruited  cargoes  here  they  brought, 

Guava,  ginger,  fig,  and  prune, 
Rice  and  spice  and  rare  birds  caught 

In  the  sluggish  tropic  noon. 


Old  Wharves  17 

These  old  wharves  re-echoed  then 

All  the  sounds  of  seaport  trade, 
Pulleys  plied  by  strong-armed  men, 

Noisy  anchors  cast  and  weighed ; 

Crashing,  carrying,  cheering  loud, 

Wild  discordant  bawl  and  brawl. 
Black  and  white,  a  motley  crowd — 

Ah,  but  how  men  loved  it  all ! 

And  the  masts  that  hedged  the  town 
How  they  creaked  in  every  breeze, 

Standing  bold  and  bare  and  brown, 
Like  uimumbered  forest  trees. 

Proud  old  wharves,  so  silent  now. 

Haughtier  in  your  grim  decay 
Than  when  many  a  princely  prow 

Sought  you  from  the  lower  bay. 

Symbols  of  dead  dreams  are  ye, 

Figures  of  the  phantom  piers 
Where  we  made  so  buoyantly 

Anchor  in  our  earlier  years. 

Yet  the  barren  tides  that  creep 

Up  the  harbour  night  and  mom. 
Plunge  and  plash  and  laugh  and  leap 

Round  your  bases  old  and  worn. 

Nothing  now  of  sadness  bear, 

For  our  barks  have  found  since  youth 

Roomier  wharves,  in  harbours  where 
They  may  anchor  fast  to  truth. 

Till  Time's  petty  traffic  done, 

All  the  bawl  and  brawl  and  strife. 
Happier  voyages  are  begun 

To  the  shores  of  endless  life. 
Arthur  Wentworth  Hamilton  Eaton, 


B 


1 8  At  Quebec 


MONTREAL 

Hail  to  thee,  Royal  city !  Like  a  queen 
Thou  sittest  on  thy  throne  in  royal  state, 
Ruling  thy  servitors  that  on  thee  wait, 
With  courtly  dignity  and  noble  mien. 
Under  thy  canopy  of  maple  green 
Thou  takest  tribute  at  thy  castle's  gate, 
Borne  in  by  white-winged  messengers,  and  great 
Their  golden  store ;  but  richer  far  I  ween 
Thou  art  in  loyal  hearts  that  beat  for  thee; 
That  turn  to  thee  as  pilgrim  to  a  shrine. 
Or  wanderer  in  foreign  lands  toward  home. 
Wealthy  in  memories;  thou  hast  the  key 
To  treasures  of  a  storied  past,  a  mine 
Of  riches  for  thy  sons  in  time  to  come. 

S.  M.  Baylis. 


AT  QUEBEC 

Quebec,  the  grey  old  city  on  the  hill. 

Lies  with  a  golden  glory  on  her  head. 

Dreaming  throughout  this  hour  so  fair,  so  still. 

Of  other  days  and  all  her  mighty  dead. 

The  white  doves  perch  upon  the  cannons  grim. 

The  flowers  bloom  where  once  did  run  a  tide 

Of  crimson,  when  the  moon  rose  pale  and  dim 

Above  the  battlefield  so  grim  and  wide. 

Methinks  within  her  wakes  a  mighty  glow 

Of  pride,  of  tenderness — her  stormy  past — 

The  strife,  the  valour,  of  the  long  ago 

Feels  at  her  heartstrings.     Strong,  and  tall,  and  vast. 

She  lies,  touched  with  the  sunset's  golden  grace, 

A  wondrous  softness  in  her  grey  old  face. 

Jean  Blewett. 


I've  Wandered  in  the  Sunny  South      19 


VANCOUVER 

Sea-Room  !    Sea- room !    Out  of  the  forest  gloom 

She  hath  hewn  her  way  to  the  light  of  day,  where  the 

peaceful  gardens  bloom, 
And  the  toils  and  tears  of  her  pioneers,  from  Fraser  to 
Nicolum, 
O'er  the  trail  they  blazed  this  monument  raised  to  last  till 
the  crash  of  doom — 
Vancouver,  mart  of  the  nations, 
A  city  of  sure  foundations. 
Quest  of  the  generations ! 
Sea-Room !    Sea-Room !  for  the  vessel's  close-packed  hold. 
Flying  the  flag  of  England,  is  freighted  with  wealth  untold. 
We  were  nursed  on  the  breast  of  our  Middle  West,  and  the 

fruit  of  their  husbandry, 
Hoard  upon  hoard,  is  laid  aboard  at  the  wharves  by  the 
Western  Sea. 

Sea-Room !  Sea-room !  for  the  vessel  is  under  way. 
Bearing  the  British  banner  to  the  confines  of  the  day: 
For  West  is  East,  and  East  is  West,  and  the  best  is  yet  to 

be— 
Star  of  the  night,  flung  far  from  light,  Vancouver,  Star 

of  the  Sea ! 

A.  N.  St.  John  Mildmay. 


I'VE  WANDERED  IN  THE  SUNNY  SOUTH 

I've  wandered  in  the  sunny  South, 

Beneath  its  purple  skies; 
And  roamed  through  many  a  far-off  land, 

Where  cloudless  beauty  lies; 
I've  breathed  the  balm  of  tropic  eves, 

Upon  the  Southern  sea; 
And  watched  the  glorious  sunset  form 

Its  radiance  far  and  free. 


20  How  They  Died  at  Thansi 

But  give  me  still  my  Northern  home — 

Her  islands  and  her  lakes; 
And  her  forests  old,  where  not  a  sound 

The  tomb-like  silence  breaks. 
More  lovely  in  her  snowy  dress. 

Or  in  her  vesture  green, 
Than  all  the  pride  of  Europe's  lands, 

Or  Asia's  glittering  sheen. 

I've  basked  beneath  Italian  suns, 

When  flowers  were  in  their  bloom ; 
And  I've  wandered  o'er  the  hills  of  Greece 

By  ruined  shrine  and  tomb; 
Oh,  sweet  it  was  to  gaze  upon 

The  Arno's  silver  tide — 
And  dearer  still,  the  ruins  grey 

Of  Athens'  fallen  pride. 

But  dearer  unto  me  that  land 

Which  the  mighty  waters  lave, 
Where  the  spreading  maple's  glorious  hues 

Are  mirrored  in  the  wave ; 
Where  music  from  the  dark,  old  woods 

Ascends  to  heaven's  dome — 
Like  angel  hymns  of  peace  and  love — 

Around  my  Northern  home. 

John  F.  McDonnell. 


HOW  THEY  DIED  AT  THANSI  i 

0  Scotland  !  Mother  of  brave  men. 

Who  battled  for  the  right, 
Whose  glory  gilds  thy  wildest  glen. 

And  sternest  mountain  height, 
And  shines  o'er  many  a  distant  land. 

Where  Scottish  lays  proclaim 

'  When  the  Indian  insurrection  took  place  at  Thansi,  Captain 
Alexander  Skene  and  his  wife  took  refuge  in  a  tower  and  made  a  brave 
and  protracted  defence,  Mrs.  Skene  loading  her  husband's  rifle.  He 
fired  till  he  had  shot  thirty-nine  rebels,  when  finding  it  impossible  to 
keep  them  out  any  longer,  he  kissed  his  wife,  shot  her,  and  then  shot 
himself. 


How  They  Died  at  Thansi  21 

The  worth  of  that  immortal  band 
Which  thou  hast  given  to  fame. 


Men  of  free  thought  and  lofty  deed, 

Firm,  steadfast,  strong,  and  true. 
Who  never  in  the  hour  of  need 

A  craven  terror  knew, 
For  liberty  and  thee  they  fought. 

They  struggled,  suffered,  died; 
And  left  the  noble  deeds  they  wrought 

To  crown  thy  brows  with  pride. 

A  proud,  glad  mother  thou  should'st  be, 

For  still  each  gallant  son 
That  glory  safely  guards  for  thee 

Their  elder  brothers  won. 
The  free  and  fearless  blood  that  flamed 

Of  old  in  Scottish  veins. 
By  no  fierce  tyrant  ever  tamed. 

Its  ancient  fire  retains. 

Not  theirs  the  limbs  that  fly  or  yield ; 

That  dauntless  hardihood. 
Which  once  on  Bannockburn's  red  field 

An  English  host  withstood, 
Held  firm  on  that  Crimean  plain, 

Where  Russian  horse  assailed 
Brave  Campbell's  iron  men  in  vain — 

In  valour  triple  mailed. 

Still  these  fought  by  their  comrades'  side 

Against  an  equal  foe, 
With  all  those  aids  to  manly  pride 

Brothers-in-arms  bestow; 
But  he  whose  sad,  heroic  fate 

Thrills  all  who  hear  it  told; 
Whose  death  in  grandeur  well  may  mate 

Some  hero's  death  of  old, 

A  hopeless  strife  could  calmly  dare 
With  one  slight  hand  to  aid, 


22  How  They  Died  at  Thansi 

One  tender  woman's  heart  to  share 

The  gallant  stand  he  made, 
And  bravely  did  she  bear  her  part, 

What  woman  ever  fails 
When  love  has  strung  and  nerved  her  heart? 

Love  over  death  prevails. 

But  there  are  evils  worse  than  death ! 

Insult  and  outrage  dread. 
The  writhing,  yelling  fiends  beneath 

May  wreak  upon  her  head : 
"  No,  never!  we  know  how  to  die!  " 

He  turned  to  her  and  caught 
A  radiant  flash  from  her  bright  eye 

That  answered  to  his  thought. 

"  Yes !  let  us  die  unsullied,  free, 

0  Father,  hear  our  cry ! 
Save  these  two  souls  that  trust  in  thee. 

To  thee  for  refuge  fly!" 
He  kissed  her  with  a  fonder  kiss, 

A  truer,  nobler  pride. 
Than  ever  in  hours  of  peaceful  bliss 

A  bridegroom  kissed  his  bride. 

"  True  heart!  so  tender  and  so  brave. 

My  faithful,  loving  wife, 
This  hand,  though  powerless  now  to  save, 

Still  guards  thy  better  life. 
Our  souls  shall  find  a  home  in  heaven; 

My  rifle  still  rings  true; 
I  murmur  not,  since  God  has  given 

A  brave  death  shared  with  you !  " 

In  his  firm  hand  his  rifle  good 

Had  failed  not  once  that  day. 
Its  dreaded  aim  that  demon  brood 

Still  kept  at  furious  bay. 
It  failed  not  now — without  a  pang 

Her  pure,  brave  spirit  fled. 
Again  the  unerring  bullet  rang — 

He  too  had  joined  the  dead. 


Laura  Secord  23 

Give  honour  to  these  noble  hearts; 

Bravely  and  well  they  died ; 
The  tear  that  to  their  memory  starts 

In  proud  content  is  dried. 
With  Scotland's  bravest  and  her  best 

She'll  give  them  place,  I  ween, 
And  deep  within  her  granite  breast 

She'll  grave  the  name  of  Skene ! 

Miss  Murray. 


LAURA  SECORD 

During  the  so-called  war  of  1812-14  between  England  and  the  United 
States,  Laura  Secord,  the  wife  of  a  crippled  British  veteran,  saved 
the  British  forces  from  a  surprise  and  possible  destruction  by  the 
heroic  action  narrated  in  the  ballad.  Her  home  lay  near  the 
celebrated  Queenston  Heights,  a  few  miles  from  the  Falls  of 
Niagara. 

Softly  the  spell  of  moonlight  fell 

On  the  swift  river's  flow, 
On  the  gray  crags  of  Queenston  Height, 

And  the  green  waves  below. 

Alone  the  whip-poor-will's  sad  cry 
Blent  with  the  murmuring  pines. 

Save  where  the  sentry  paced  his  rounds 
Along  th'  invading  lines. 

But  in  one  lowly  cottage  home 

Were  trouble  and  dismay; 
The  anxious  watchers  could  not  sleep 

For  tidings  heard  that  day. 

Brave  James  Secord,  with  troubled  heart, 

And  weary,  crippled  frame, 
That  bore  the  scars  of  Queenston  Heights, 

Back  to  his  cottage  came. 

For  he  had  learned  a  dark  design 

Fitzgibbon  to  surprise. 
As  with  a  handful  of  brave  men 

At  Beaver  Dam  he  lies. 


24  Laura  Secord 

"  And  Boerstler,  with  eight  hundred  men, 

Is  moving  from  the  shore 
To  steal  upon  our  outpost  there, 

Guarded  by  scarce  two  score ! 

"  Then  wiping  out,  as  well  he  may. 

That  gallant  little  band. 
The  foe  will  sweep  his  onward  way 

O'er  the  defenceless  land. 

"  Then  noble  Brock  had  died  in  vain — 

If  but  Fitzgibbon  knew!  " 
And  the  poor  cripple's  heart  is  fain 

To  press  the  journey  through. 

But  Laura,  bending  o'er  her  babes. 
Said,  smiling  through  her  tears : 

"  These  are  not  times  for  brave  men's  wives 
To  yield  to  craven  fears. 

"  You  cannot  go  to  warn  our  men, 

Or  slip  the  outpost  through; 
But  if  perchance  they  let  me  pass, 

This  errand  I  will  do." 

She  soothed  his  anxious  doubts  and  fears; 

She  knew  the  forest  way; 
She  put  her  trust  in  Him  who  hears 

His  children  when  they  pray ! 

Soon  as  the  rosy  flush  of  dawn 
Glanced  through  the  purple  air. 

She  rose  to  household  tasks — and  kissed 
Her  babes  with  whispered  prayer. 

To  milk  her  grazing  cow  she  went; 

The  sentry  at  the  lines 
Forgot  to  watch,  as  both  were  lost 

Amid  the  sheltering  pines. 

The  rising  sun's  first  golden  rays 
Gleamed  through  the  forest  dim, 


Laura  Secord  25 

And  through  its  leafy  arches  rang 
The  bird's  sweet  morning  hymn. 

The  fragrant  odour  of  the  pines, 

The  carols  gay  and  sweet, 
Gave  courage  to  the  fluttering  heart, 

And  strength  to  faltering  feet. 

And  on  she  pressed,  with  steadfast  tread. 

Her  solitary  way 
O'er  tangled  brake  and  sodden  swamp 

Through  all  the  sultry  day. 

Though,  for  the  morning  songs  of  birds 

She  heard  the  wolf's  hoarse  cry. 
And  saw  the  rattlesnake  glide  forth, 

As  swift  she  hurried  by. 

Nor  dark  morass  nor  rushing  stream 

Could  balk  the  steadfast  will. 
Nor  pleading  voice  of  anxious  friends 

Where  stood  St.  David's  Hill. 

The  British  sentry  heard  her  tale. 

And  cheered  her  on  her  way; 
But  bade  her  'ware  the  Indian  scouts 

Who  in  the  covert  lay. 

Anon,  as  crushed  a  rotten  bough 

Beneath  her  wary  feet. 
She  heard  their  war-whoop  through  the  gloom, 

Their  steps  advancing  fleet. 

But  quickly  to  the  questioning  chief 

She  told  her  errand  grave 
How  she  had  walked  the  live-long  day 

Fitzgibbon's  men  to  save ! 

The  redskin  heard,  and  kindly  gazed 

Upon  the  pale-faced  squaw; 
Her  faithful  courage  touched  his  heart, 

Her  weary  look  he  saw. 


2  6  Laura  Secord 

"  Me  go  with  you  "  was  all  he  said, 

And  through  the  forest  gray- 
He  led  her  safe  to  Beaver  Dam 

Where  brave  Fitzgibbon  lay. 

With  throbbing  heart  she  told  her  tale; 

They  heard  with  anxious  heed, 
And  knew  how  grave  the  crisis  was, 

How  urgent  was  the  need ! 

Then  there  was  riding  far  and  near, 

And  mustering  to  and  fro 
Of  troops  and  Indians  from  the  rear 

To  meet  the  coming  foe; 

And  such  the  bold  determined  stand 
Those  few  brave  soldiers  made — 

So  fiercely  fought  the  Indian  band 
From  forest  ambuscade — 

That  Boerstler  in  the  first  surprise 

Surrendered  in  despair, 
To  force  so  small  it  scarce  could  serve 

To  keep  the  prisoners  there ! 

While  the  brave,  weary  messenger 

In  dreamless  slumber  lay 
And  woke  to  find  her  gallant  friends 

Were  masters  of  the  fray. 

If  e'er  Canadian  courage  fail, 

Or  loyalty  grow  cold. 
Or  nerveless  grow  Canadian  hearts. 

Then  be  the  story  told — 

How  British  gallantry  and  skill 
There  played  their  noblest  part. 

Yet  scarce  had  won  if  there  had  failed 
One  woman's  dauntless  heart. 

Agnes  Maude  Machar. 


Madeleine  de  Vercheres  27 


MADELEINE  DE  VERCHERES 

I 

"  OH;  my  country,  bowed  in  anguish  'neath  a  weight  of  bitter 

woe, 
Who  shall  save  thee  from  the  vengeance  of  the  desolating 

foe? 
They  have  sworn  a  heathen  oath  that  every  Christian  soul 

must  die — 
God  of  heaven,  in  mercy  shield  us !  Father,  hear  thy  children's 

cry." 

II 

Thus  prayed  Madeleine,  the  daughter  of  an  old  heroic  line — 
Grecian  poet  had  he  seen  her  must  have  deemed  her  face 

divine. 
But  as  the  golden  sun  transcends  the  beauty  of  the  brightest 

star. 
Than  all  the  charms  of  face  and  form  her  maiden  heart  was 

lovelier  far. 

Ill 

We  can  see  her  now  in  fancy,  through  the  dim  years  gazing 

back 
To  those  stirring  days  of  old,  the  days  of  valiant  Frontenac, 
When  the  thinly  settled  land  was  sadly  wasted  far  and  near, 
And  before  the  savage  foe  the  people  fled  like  stricken  deer. 

IV 

'Tis  the  season  when  the  forest  wears  its  many-coloured 

dress, 
And  a  strange  foreboding  whisper  answers  back  the  wind's 

caress, 
As  the  swaying  pines  repeat  the  murmurs  of  the  distant 

waves, 
While  the  children  of  the  Summer  flutter  softly  to  their 

graves. 

V 

But  was  that  another  whisper  warning  her  of  ill  to  come, 
As  she  stands  beside  the  river,  near  her  father's  fortress 
home? 


28  Madeleine  de  Vercheres 

Hark!    the  sound  of  stealthy  footsteps  creeps  upon  the 

throbbing  ear — 
Maiden,  fly !  the  foe  approaches,  and  no  human  aid  is  near. 

VI 

Surely  He  who  decked  with  beauty  this  fair  earth  on  which 

we  dwell, 
Never  meant  that  men  should  change  it  by  their  madness 

into  hell! 
He  who  gave  the  trees  their  glory,  gave  the  birds  their  gift  of 

song, 
Cannot  smile  from  out  yon  heavens  at  the  siglit  of  human 

wrong. 

VII 

But  those  savage  hearts  no  beauty  wins  to  thoughts  of  tender 

ruth — 
Mother  fond,  or  gentle  maid,  or  innocence  of  youth. 
See  with  fierce  exulting  yells  the  flying  maiden  they  pursue — 
Hear  her  prayer,  0  God,  and   save  her  from  that  wild 

vindictive  crew. 

VIII 

Never  ere  that  day  or  since  was  such  a  race  by  maiden  run, 
Never   'gainst   such    fearful   odds   was   wished-for-goal   so 

swiftly  won ; 
Fifty  foes  are  on  her  track,  the  bullets  graze  her  floating 

hair — 
But  worse  than  vain  is  all  their  rage,  for  God  has  heard  her 

prayer. 

IX 

Madeleine  has  reached  the  fort,  the  gates  are  closed  against 

the  foe. 
But  now  a  stricken  throng  sends  up  to  heaven  a  wail  of  woe — 
Feeble  men,  and  fainting  women,  without  heart  or  hope  or 

plan — 
Then  it  was  that  God  gave  courage  to  a  maid  to  act  the  man, 

X 

Then  it  was  that  Madeleine  bethought  her  of  her  father's 

name; 
"  Never  shall  a  soldier's  daughter  die  the  coward's  death  of 

shame. 


Madeleine  de  Vercheres  29 

Never,  in  the  days  to  come,  when  Canada  is  great  and  proud, 
Be  it  said  a  Christian  maiden  by  a  heathen's  threat  was  cowed. 

XI 

"  He  is  but  a  craven  wretch  would  bid  me  yield  in  such  an 

hour — 
Never  yet  my  country's  sons  in  peril's  face  were  known  to 

cower ! 
No,  my  people!    God  is  with  us;    'tis  our  homes  that  we 

defend — 
Let  the  savage  do  his  worst,  we  will  oppose  him  to  the  end. 

XII 

"  Women,  I  am  but  a  girl,  but  hero's  blood  is  in  my  veins, 
And  I  will  shed  it  drop  by  drop  before  I  see  my  land  in  chains; 
Let  them  tear  me  limb  from  limb,  or  strew  my  ashes  to  the 

wind. 
Ere  I  disgrace  the  name  I  bear,  or  leave  a  coward's  fame 

behind. 

XIII 

"  Brothers  mine,  though  young  in  years  you  are  old  enough 

to  know 
That  to  shed  your  blood  is  noble,  fighting  with  your  country's 

foe! 
Be  the  lesson  unforgotten  that  our  noble  father  gave, 
Whether  glory  be  its  guerdon,  or  it  wins  us  but  a  grave. 

XIV 

"  Come,  my  people,  take  your  places,  every  one  as  duty  calls; 
Death  to  every  foe  who  ventures  to  approach  these  fortress 

walls ! 
Let  no  point  be  unprotected,  leave  the  rest  to  God  on  high. 
Then  we  shall  have  done  our  duty,  even  if  we  have  to  die." 

XV 

Thus  she  braced  their  drooping  courage,  matchless  maiden, 

Madeleine ; 
And  the  cry,  "  to  arms !  "  re-echoed,  till  the  roof-trees  rang 

again ; 
Cannons  thundered,  muskets  rattled,  and  the  clank  of  steel 

was  heard, 
Till  the  baffled  foe  retreated,  like  a  wolf  untimely  scared. 


30  Dargai  Ridge 

XVI 

Seven  days  and  seven  nights,  with  sleepless  eye  and  bated 

breath, 
They  held  the  fort  against  the  foe  that  lurked  around  them 

plotting  death ! 
At  last  a  joyous  challenge  came,  it  was  the  brave  La  Momerie, 
And  up  to  heaven  rose  a  shout,  "  The  foe  has  fled  and  we  are 

free!" 


J.  Reade. 


KHARTOUM 


Set  in  the  fierce  red  desert  for  a  sword. 
Drawn  and  deep  driven  implacably !    The  tide 
Of  scorching  sand  that  chafes  thy  landward  side 
Storming  thy  palms ;  and  past  thy  front  out- poured 
The  Nile's  vast  dread  and  wonder!    Late  there  roared 
(While  far  off  paused  the  long  war,  long  defied) 
Mad  tumult  thro'  thy  streets;  and  Gordon  died. 
Slaughtered  amid  the  yelling  rebel  horde ! 
Yet  spite  of  shame  and  wrathful  tears,  Khartoum, 
We  owe  thee  certain  thanks,  for  thou  hast  shown 
How  still  the  one  a  thousand  crowds  outweighs — 
Still  one  man's  mood  sways  millions — one  man's  doom 
Smites  nations — and  our  burning  spirits  own 
Not  sordid  these  nor  unheroic  days ! 

C.  G.  D.  Roberts. 


DARGAI  RIDGE 

Thank  God,  I  have  in  my  laggard  blood 

The  vim  of  the  Englishman, 
Which  is  second  to  none,  from  North  to  South, 

Save  the  fire  of  the  Scottish  clan — 
Save  the  blood  of  the  lads  who  died 

On  the  rocky  mountain-side. 
And  went  to  the  hell  of  the  heated  guns 

As  a  lover  goes  to  his  bride. 


Dargai  Ridge  3  i 

The  Ghoorkas  laughed  at  the  whining  balls — 

And  they  were  of  alien  race, 
The  English  drave  at  the  smoking  rocks 

And  their  subalterns  set  the  pace. 
Oh,  the  blood  of  the  lads  who  fell 

When  the  valley  lay  a  hell ; 
Thank  God,  that  the  men  in  the  East  and  West 

Cheer  at  the  tale  they  tell. 

The  Ghoorkas  lay  in  the  slaughter  place. 

Save  a  few  that  had  battled  through — 
Their  brown  brave  faces  raised  to  the  steep 

Where  the  flags  of  the  marksmen  flew — 
Their  great  souls  cheering  still 

(Souls  that  no  ball  could  kill) 
Unto  the  ears  of  the  few,  who  crouched 

Under  the  crooked  hill. 

The  English  went  as  maids  to  a  dance 

Or  hounds  to  the  huntsman's  call, 
And  the  English  lay  in  the  valley-lap 

And  smeared  their  blood  on  the  wall. 
Oh,  the  blood  that  knows  no  shame 

And  the  valour  clear  of  blame, 
Thank  God  that  the  world  is  girt  about 

With  the  gold  of  an  English  name. 

Then  the  men  of  the  Gordon  Highlanders 

With  their  bagpipes  shrilling  free — 
The  lads  of  the  heather  pasture-side. 

The  lads  of  the  unclad  knee. 
Charged — where  their  friends  lay  dead — 

Over  the  green  and  red 
To  the  cry  of  the  regimental  pipes 

And  the  flip  of  the  killing  lead. 

They  passed  the  level  of  sprawling  shapes 

And  the  valley  of  reeking  death. 
They  struck  the  rocks  of  the  mountain  pass 

Where  the  smoke  blew  up  like  breath. 
Little  they  thought  of  fame 

Or  the  lifting  of  a  name; 


3-2  The  Canadians  on  the  Nile 

They  only  thought  of  the  mountain  crest 
And  the  circle  of  spitting  fiame. 

Thank  God,  I  find  in  my  laggard  blood, 

Deep  down,  the  fire  of  a  man, 
And  the  heart  that  shakes  with  a  mad  delight 

At  the  name  of  a  Highland  clan, 
At  the  name  of  the  lads  who  died 

On  the  rocky  mountain-side 
And  went  to  the  hell  of  the  heated  guns 

As  a  lover  goes  to  his  bride. 

Theodore  Roberts. 


THE  CANADIANS  ON  THE  NILE 

0,  THE  East  is  but  the  West,  with  the  sun  a  little  hotter; 
And  the  pine  becomes  a  palm  by  the  dark  Egyptian  water; 
And  the  Nile's  like  many  a  stream  we  know  that  fills  its 

brimming  cup; 
We'll  think  it  is  the  Ottawa  as  we  haul  the  bateaux  up ! 
Pull,  pull,  pull !  as  we  track  the  bateaux  up ! 
It's  easy  shooting  homeward  when  we're  at  the  top. 

0,  the  cedar  and  the  spruce  line  each  dark  Canadian  river; 
But  the  thirsty  dale  is  here  where  the  sultry  sunbeams  quiver; 
And  the  mocking  mirage  spreads  its  view  afar  on  either  hand; 
But  strong  we  bend  the  sturdy  oar  towards  the  southern  land ! 
Pull,  pull,  pull !  as  we  track  the  bateaux  up! 
Its  easy  shooting  homeward  when  we're  at  the  top. 

0,  we've  tracked  the  Rapids  up,  and  o'er  many  a  portage 

crossing; 
And  its  often  such  we've  seen,  though  so  loud  the  waves  are 

tossing ! 
Then  its  homeward  when  the  run  is  o'er!   o'er  stream  and 

ocean  deep — 
To  bring  the  memory  of  the  Nile,  where  the  maple  shadows 

sleep ! 
Pull,  pull,  pull !  as  we  track  the  bateaux  up! 
Its  easy  shooting  homeward  when  we're  at  the  top ! 


The  Woman's  Part  33 

And  it  yet  may  come  to  pass  that  the  hearts  and  hands  so 

ready 
May  be  sought  again  to  help  when  some  poise  is  off  the  steady ! 
And  the  maple  and  the  pine  be  matched  with  British  oak 

the  while, 
As  once  beneath  Egyptian  suns  the  Canadians  on  the  Nile! 
Pull,  pull,  pull !  as  we  track  the  bateaux  up ! 
It's  easy  shooting  homeward  when  we're  at  the  top. 

W.  Wye  Smith, 


THE  WOMAN'S  PART 

Gone  !  brother,  lover,  son ! 
Gone  forth  to  certain  peril,  toil,  and  pain. 
And  chance  of  death — for  country  counted  gain. 
Our  part  to  let  them  go;  "  Not  one 

Would  we  hold  back,"  to  give 
Our  heart's  best  treasures  to  our  mother-land 
Though  the  gift  break  them ;  firm  of  lip  and  hand 
To  bid  farewell;  to  say,  "  Be  strong  and  live 
Victors  or  die  deserving,"     Who  shall  deem 
Our  part  the  easier?  or  the  place  we  hold 
Patience  for  courage — for  the  deed  the  dream — 
Waiting  for  action — service  slight  or  cold  .'* 

What  shall  we  give  them  ?    Words  ? 
To  them,  obedient  to  the  bonds  of  faith. 
To  them,  enduring  danger,  facing  death. 
Words  were  as  stones  for  bread.    Were  our  speech  swords, 

And  were  our  frail  hopes  shields. 
Then  might  we  give  them ;  but  how  frame  our  thought 
Nor  mar  the  harvest  gift  their  truth  has  brought 
With  the  poor  fruit  a  woman's  nature  yields 
When  love  sows  seeds ?     Hush!  let  us  keep  our  souls 
In  silence — Words  of  comfort,  words  of  cheer. 
But  mock  the  senses  when  the  war-cloud  rolls 
Black  'twixt  the  eyes  and  all  the  heart  holds  dear. 

What  can  we  give  them  ?    Prayers  ? 
Shall  not  the  God  of  battles  work  His  will? 


34  Missipowistic 

He  guards,  He  smiles,  Our  strength  is  to  be  still 
And  wait  His  word;  to  cast  aside  our  cares 

And  trust  His  justice;  strife 
And  peace  are  in  His  hand.    They  who  shall  see 
Victorious  days,  and  in  the  time  to  be 
Shall  share  again  the  toils  and  joys  of  life 
Are  His — but  not  less  His  are  they  who  fall 
(Sealing  their  soul's  devotion  with  their  breath), 
And  not  less  loved  that,  true  to  duty's  call, 
Their  crown  of  honour  comes  to  them  in  death. 

What  shall  we  give  them  ?    Tears  ? 
Tears  least  of  all !  Shame  not  their  valour  so — 
Honour  and  manhood  call  them;  let  them  go. 
Nor  make  farewell  twice  parting  by  your  tears, 

0  woman-heart,  be  strong ! 
Too  full  for  words — too  humble  for  a  prayer — 
Too  faithful  to  be  fearful — offer  here 
Your  sacrifice  of  patience.    Not  for  long 
The  darkness.    When  the  dawn  of  peace  breaks  bright 
Blessed  she  who  welcomes  whom  her  God  shall  save, 
But  honoured  in  her  God's  and  country's  sight 
She  who  Ufts  empty  arms  to  cry,  "  I  gave!  " 

Annie  Rothavell  Christie. 


MISSIPOWISTIC  1 

(Written  at  the  Grand  Rapids  of  the  Saskatchewan) 

Here  in  this  howling  torrent  ends 
The  rushing  river  named 
By  savage  man 
Saskatchewan — 
In  dark  tradition  famed. 

His  source,  Creation's  dread  abyss. 
Or  in  the  glacier's  cell; 

His  way  the  sweep 

Of  canyons  deep, 
And  clefts  and  chasms  fell. 

>  The  Grand  Rapids  by  which  it  discharges  into  Lake  Winnipeg  are 
called  Missipowistic. 


Missipowistic  35 

And  forth  from  many  a  mountain  side 
He  leaps  with  laughter  grim ; 

Their  spurs  are  slit, 

Their  walls  are  split, 
To  make  a  path  for  him. 

And  down  into  the  plains  he  raves 
With  dusky  torrent  cold, 

And  lines  his  bed 

With  treasure  shred 
From  unknown  reefs  of  gold. 

And  monster-like,  devours  his  shores. 
Or  writhing  through  the  plain. 
Casts  up  the  while 
Full  many  an  isle, 
And  swallows  them  again. 

For  though,  betimes  he  seems  to  sink 
Amidst  the  prairies  pale, 

He  swells  with  pride 

In  summer-tide. 
When  low-bom  rivers  fail. 

And  knits  traditions  to  his  shores 
Of  savage  fights  and  fame, 

When  poaching  Cree 

The  Blackfoot  free 
With  magic  arms  o'ercame.^ 

Of  Wapiti  and  Spanish  horse,^ 
And  of  the  bison  horde, 

A  transverse  stream. 

As  in  a  dream, 
Which  flowed  at  every  ford. 

And  of  the  whites  who  first  espied 
His  course,  their  toils  and  cares; 

1  An  allusion  to  the  dispossession  of  the  Blackfoot  Indians  by  the 
Crees  who  obtained  magic  arms,  i.e.  fire-arms,  from  the  EngUsh  at 
Hudson  Bay. 

^  The  Spanish  horse  was  the  progenitor  of  the  Indian  ponies. 


36  Missipowistic 

Of  brave  Varennes/ 
The  boast  of  men, 
And  prince  of  Voyageurs. 

Of  him  who  once  his  waters  churned — 
The  bluff  fur-trader  king — 

Mackenzie  bold, 

Renowned  of  old 
For  his  far  wandering. 

Of  later  days,  when  to  his  shores 
The  dauntless  Franklin  came: 
Ere  science  lost, 
In  Arctic  frost. 
The  life,  the  lofty  aim. 

Or  of  the  old  Bois-Brule  town, 
Whose  huts  of  log  and  earth 
Rang  winter-long 
With  jest  and  song, 
And  wild  plain-hunter's  mirth. 

And  of  the  nearer,  darker  days. 
Which  saw  their  offspring  leap 

To  arms,  and  wake 

With  frenzied  shake. 
Dull  Justice  from  her  sleep. 

Or,  turning  to  the  future,  dreams 
On  Time,  and  prophesies 

The  human  tide 

When,  by  his  side, 
Great  cities  shall  arise. 

The  sordid  tide,  the  weltering  sea, 
Of  lusts  and  cares  and  strife ; 
The  dreaded  things 
The  worldling  brings — 
The  rush  and  roar  of  life. 

1 A  son  of  Varennes  Sieur  de  la  Verandrye  (known  as  "  The 
Chevalier  ") — a  most  adventurous  spirit — credited  with  the  discovery 
of  the  Saskatchewan. 


Missipowistic  37 

And  onwards  tears  his  torrent  still, 
A  hundred  leagues  withdrawn, 

Beyond  the  capes 

And  sylvan  shapes 
And  wilds  of  Chimahawn. 

Down  through  the  silent  forest  land. 
Beyond  the  endless  marge 

Of  swale  and  brake, 

And  lingering  lake 
Beyond  the  Demi-charge. 

Till  at  the  Landing-place  he  lifts 
His  crest  of  foam,  and  quick 

As  lightning  leaps 

Adown  the  steeps 
Of  Missipowistic! 

Whilst  o'er  him  wheels  the  osprey's  wing — 
And  in  the  tamarac  glades 

Near  by,  the  bear 

And  mooswa  share 
Their  matchless  mossy  shades. 

Whilst  echoes  of  the  huskie's  yells  ^ 
From  yonder  woods  are  flung 

At  midnight  dim, 

A  chorus  grim, 
As  if  by  demons  sung ! 

But  see !  here  comes  a  birch  canoe ! 
Two  wiry  forms  it  bears. 
In  quaintest  guise. 
With  wrinkled  eyes — 
Two  smoke-dried  voyageurs. 

"  We'll  take  you  down !  Embarquez  done — 
Embarquez  done.  Monsieur! 
We'll  steer  you  through 
The  channel  true," 
Cries  each  old  voyageur. 

1  A  corruption  of  the  word  Esquimaux  used  of  the  trained  dogs 
siunmered  in  large  niunbers  at  the  fishing  posts  in  the  interior. 


38  Missipowistic 

"  Nay  look  ye,  men — those  walls  of  foam, 
Yon  swirling  '  cellars  '  fell!  " 
"  Fear  not  to  pass, 
Thou  Moniyas !  ^ 
We  know  the  torrent  well." 

"I've  roamed  this  river  from  my  youth — 
I  know  its  every  fork." 
"  And  I  have  made/' 
The  other  said, 
"  Full  many  a  trip  to  York!  "  ^ 

So  ho !  I'll  go !  the  Rapids  call ! 
With  hamper  at  my  wing 

We  sally  down 

The  foaming  crown 
Like  arrow  from  the  string — 

Into  the  yeast  of  waters  wild, 
Where  winds  and  eddies  rave ! 
Into  the  fume 
And  raging  spume 
And  tempest  of  the  wave ! 

Past  rocky  points,  with  bays  between. 
Where  pelicans,  bright-hued, 
Are  flushed  to  flight 
With  birds  like  night — 
The  cormorant's  impish  brood. 

And  madly  now  our  frail  craft  leaps 
Adown  the  billows'  strife. 

And  cleaves  their  crests 

And  seething  breasts 
As  'twere  a  thing  of  life. 

As  dips  the  pandion  ^  for  his  prey 
So  dips  our  bark  amain, 

*  The  Cree  word  for  Canadian:    it  means  as  well,  new  comer,  green- 
horn:  still  used  among  the  whites  in  Saskatchewan. 

"  i.e.  York  factory  on  Hudson  Bay. 

*  The  American  osprey. 


Missipowistic  39 


We  sink  and  soar, 
And  sink  and  soar, 
And  sink  and  soar  again. 

Till,  following  the  foaming  fall 
Of  one  long  throbbing  wave, 

Enrapt  we  glide. 

And  seem  to  slide 
Down,  down  into  its  grave ! 


(( 


0  break !  0  break !  sweet  balm,  soft  air ! " 
"  No,  no,  we  mount !  we  rise !  " 

Once  more  the  dash 

And  deafening  clash 
Of  billows  flout  the  skies. 

Till  swept  o'er  many  a  whirling  swell, 
The  final  surge  is  past, 

And  hke  the  strife 

Of  human  life, 
We  reach  calm  floods  at  last. 

Now  thanks,  ye  grim  old  voyageurs ! 
No  man  has  flinched  in  fear — 

Yet  in  earth's  round 

I've  seldom  found 
This  life  and  death  so  near. 

Thanks,  thanks  to  you,  good  men  and  true ! 
Here  we  shall  rest  awhile, 
And  toast  the  bold 
Coureurs  of  old 
Upon  the  Prisoner's  isle.^ 

Charles  Mair. 

1  An  isle  at  the  first  of  the  rapids — sometimes  in  former  days  used  for 
the  keeping  of  prisoners. 


40  The  Thousand  Isles 


THE  THOUSAND  ISLES 

Here  the  Spirit  of  beauty  keepeth 

Jubilee  for  evermore, 
Here  the  voice  of  gladness  leapeth, 

Echoing  from  shore  to  shore. 
O'er  the  hidden  watery  valley, 

O'er  each  buried  wood  and  glade, 
Dances  our  delighted  galley, 

Through  the  sunlight  and  the  shade — 
Dances  o'er  the  granite  cells, 
Where  the  soul  of  beauty  dwells.  • 

Here  the  flowers  are  ever  springing. 

While  the  summer  breezes  blow; 
Here  the  hours  are  ever  clinging, 

Loitering  before  they  go; 
Playing  around  each  beauteous  islet, 

Loath  to  leave  the  sunny  shore. 
Where,  upon  her  couch  of  violet. 

Beauty  sits  for  evermore — 
Sits,  and  smiles  by  day  and  night, 
Hand  in  hand  with  pure  delight. 

Here  the  Spirit  of  beauty  dwelleth 

In  each  palpitating  tree, 
In  each  amber  wave  that  welleth 

From  its  home  beneath  the  sea; 
In  the  moss  upon  the  granite. 

In  each  calm  secluded  bay, 
With  the  zephyr  winds  that  fan  it 

With  their  sweet  breaths  all  the  day — 
On  the  waters,  on  the  shore. 
Beauty  dwelleth  evenuore ! 

Charles  Sangster. 


Night  Among  the  Thousand  Isles     41 


NIGHT  AMONG  THE  THOUSAND  ISLES 

Mysterious  falls  the  moon's  transforming  light 

On  lichen  covered  rock  and  granite  wall, 
Comes  piercing  through  the  hollows  of  the  night 
The  loon's  weird,  plaintive  call. 

Like  some  great  regiment  upon  the  shore 

The  stalwart  pines  go  trooping  up  the  hill, 
And  faintly  in  the  distance  o'er  and  o'er 
Echoes  the  whip-poor-will. 

Like  silhouettes  the  dreaming  islands  keep 

Their  silent  watches,  mirrored  in  the  tide, 
While  in  their  labyrinthine  aisles  some  deep. 
Still  mystery  seems  to  hide. 

From  out  the  shadows  dim  against  the  sky 

Come  stealing  shadow-ships  not  made  of  men, 
Faint  phantom  barques  that  slowly  drifting  by 
Are  swallowed  up  again. 

While  silently  beneath,  the  river  flows, 

Unfathomed,  dark,  a  great  resistless  tide, 
Within  its  bosom  deep  the  virgin  snows 
From  many  a  mountain  side. 

And,  drifting  with  the  current,  how  we  feel 
The  haunting  witchery  of  Beauty's  spell ! 
The  world  we  left  behind  seems  all  unreal. 
Where  such  enchantments  dwell. 

The  vexing  cares  that  overfill  our  days 

Slip  stealthily  away,  and  we  are  wooed 
Back  to  the  healing,  half-forgotten  ways 
Of  peace  and  solitude. 

Helena  ColemaNs 


42  Lake  Huron 


VAPOUR  AND  BLUE 

Domed  with  the  azure  of  heaven, 
Floored  with  a  pavement  of  pearl, 

Clothed  all  about  with  a  brightness 
Soft  as  the  eyes  of  a  girl, 

Girt  with  a  magic  girdle. 
Rimmed  with  a  vapour  of  rest — 

These  are  the  inland  waters. 
These  are  the  lakes  of  the  west. 

Voices  of  slumberous  music, 

Spirits  of  mist  and  flame, 
Moonlit  memories,  left  here 

By  gods  who  long  ago  came. 

And  vanishing  left  but  an  echo 

In  silence  of  moon-dim  caves. 
Where  haze-wrapt  the  August  night  slumbers 

Or  the  wild  heart  of  October  raves. 

Here  where  the  jewels  of  Nature 
Are  set  in  the  light  of  God's  smile. 

Far  from  the  world's  wild  throbbing, 
I  will  stay  me  and  rest  awhile. 

And  store  in  my  heart  old  music. 

Melodies  gathered  and  sung 
By  the  genies  of  love  and  beauty 

When  the  heart  of  the  world  was  young. 


LAKE  HURON 
{October) 

Miles  and  miles  of  lake  and  forest, 
Miles  and  miles  of  sky  and  mist, 

Marsh  and  shoreland,  where  the  rushes 
Rustle,  wind  and  water  kissed; 

Where  the  lake's  great  face  is  driving, 
Driving,  drifting  into  mist. 


The  Secret  of  the  Sanguenay  43 

Miles  and  miles  of  crimson  glories, 

Autumn's  wondrous  fires  ablaze; 
Miles  of  shoreland,  red  and  golden, 

Drifting  into  dream  and  haze; 
Dreaming  where  the  woods  and  vapours 

Melt  in  myriad  misty  ways. 

Miles  and  miles  of  lake  and  forest, 

Miles  and  miles  of  sky  and  mist; 
Wild  birds  calling,  where  the  rushes 

Rustle,  wind  and  water  kissed ; 
Where  the  lake's  great  face  is  driving. 

Driving,  drifting  into  mist. 

W.  Wilfred  Campbell. 


LAKE  SCENE  IN  WESTERN  CANADA 

{Drowned  land  by  the  Lake  Shore — An  autumnal  twilight  scene) 

The  dead  trees  stand  around— gaunt,  bleach'd,  and  bare — 

Like  skeletons  of  strange  weird  things  that  were — 

The  black  ooze  trailing  at  their  tangled  roots : 

Far  off  a  solitary  owlet  hoots. 

And,  all  beyond,  the  great  grey  waters  lie 

Pale  in  the  gleam  of  stars.    The  night's  faint  sigh 

Floats  o'er  the  pine-plumed  islets,  looking  now 

Like  phantom  ships  that  come  with  silent  prow 

And  shadowy  sails  from  some  forgotten  shore 

Lost  in  the  haze  of  years  that  come  no  more, 

Save  in  the  semblance  of  a  memory 

Re-bom  in  summer  dreams — 

E.  J.  Chapman. 


THE  SECRET  OF  THE  SANGUENAY 

Like  a  fragment  of  torn  sea-kale, 
Or  a  wraith  of  mist  in  a  gale. 
There  comes  a  mysterious  tale 

Out  of  the  stormy  past; 
How  a  fleet  with  a  living  freight, 
Once  sailed  through  the  rocky  gate 


44  The  Secret  of  the  Sanguenay 

Of  the  river  so  desolate, 
Tliis  chasm  so  black  and  vast. 

'Twas  Cartier,  the  sailor  bold, 
Whose  credulous  lips  had  told 
How  glittering  gems  and  gold 

Were  found  in  that  lonely  land; 
How  out  of  the  priceless  hoard 
Within  their  rough  bosoms  stored, 
These  towering  mountains  poured 

Their  treasures  upon  the  strand. 

Allured  by  the  greed  of  gain 
Sieur  Roberval  turned  again. 
And,  sailing  across  the  main. 

Passed  up  the  St.  Lawrence  tide; 
He  sailed  by  the  frowning  shape 
Of  Jacques  Cartier's  Devil's  Cape, 
Till  the  Sanguenay  stood  agape 

With  hills  upon  either  side. 

Around  him  the  sunbeams  fell 
On  the  gentle  St.  Lawrence  swell. 
As  though  by  some  mystic  spell 

The  water  was  turned  to  gold; 
But  as  he  pursued,  they  fled. 
Till  his  vessels  at  last  were  led 
Where,  cold  and  sullen  and  dead, 

The  Sanguenay  river  rolled. 

Chill  blew  the  wind  in  his  face, 
As,  still  on  his  treasure  chase. 
He  entered  that  gloomy  place 

Whose  mountains  in  stony  pride. 
Still,  soulless,  merciless,  sheer. 
Their  adamant  sides  uprear. 
Naked  and  brown  and  drear, 

High  over  the  murky  tide. 

No  longer  the  sun  shone  bright 
On  the  sails  that,  full  and  white, 
Like  sea-gulls  winging  their  flight 
Dipped  in  the  silent  wave; 


Niagara  45 

But  shadows  fell  thick  around, 
Till  feeling  and  sight  and  sound 
In  their  awful  gloom  were  drowned. 
And  sank  in  a  depthless  grave. 

Far  over  the  topmost  height 
Great  eagles  had  wheeled  in  flight, 
But,  wrapped  in  the  gloom  of  night, 

They  ceased  to  circle  and  soar; 
Grim  silence  reigned  over  all, 
Save  that  from  a  rocky  wall 
A  murmuring  waterfall 

Leapt  down  to  the  river  shore. 

0 !  merciless  wall  of  stone. 

What  happened  that  night  is  known 

By  you,  and  by  you  alone; 

Though  the  eagles  unceasing  scream ; 
How  once  through  that  midnight  air, 
For  an  instant  a  trumpet's  blare. 
And  the  voices  of  men  in  prayer. 

Arose  from  the  murky  stream. 

Arthur  Weir. 


NIAGARA 

A  THOUSAND  streams  all  gather  into  one 

And  in  thy  thunders  sink; 
Four  mighty  seas  to  thy  dread  margin  run. 

And  dare  thy  awful  brink. 

The  shock  of  cavalry  in  battle-sweep. 

The  might  of  war's  impact, 
Are  whispers  to  the  thunder  o'er  the  steep 

Of  thy  great  cataract. 

While  yet  there  was  no  ear  to  hear  thy  moan 

And  all  the  earth  was  young. 
Out  on  the  lonely  air  thy  monotone 

Its  deep  vibrations  flung. 


46  The  Temple  of  the  Ages 

The  sun  was  painting  rainbows  on  the  mist 

That  veiled  thy  watery  crown, 
When  fierce  Cambyses  staggered  all  the  East 

And  trampled  Egypt  down. 

Still  boomed  thy  flood  in  ceaseless  cannonade, 

And  seethed  in  yeasty  foam, 
When  Goth  and  Vandal  in  destruction  laid 

The  towers  of  ancient  Rome. 

Thy  torrent  breaks  the  adamantine  rock 

And  hurls  it  from  the  height; 
The  firm-knit  earth  cannot  withstand  the  shock 

Of  thy  propulsive  might. 

How  wild  the  storm  that  ever  downward  sweeps 

The  whirlwind  of  thy  foam, 
How  still  the  sky  that  all  thy  water  weeps 

The  raindrops  from  its  dome. 

Sublime  and  silent  is  that  mighty  force 

That  dwells  within  these  forms 
Whose  wings  of  mist  soar  upward  in  their  course 

And  veil  thy  breast  in  storms. 

Howe'er  resistlessly  thy  fury  sweeps, 

How  vast  soe'er  thy  powers, 
In  gravitation  all  thy  glory  sleeps. 

Thy  substance  in  the  showers. 

Dr.  Albert  D.  Watson. 


THE  TEMPLE  OF  THE  AGES 

These  mountains  sleep,  white  winter's  mantle  round  them. 
The  thunder's  voice  no  longer  breaks  their  rest; 

From  bluest  heights  the  sun  beholds  with  rapture 
The  noble  pose  of  each  gigantic  crest. 

The  Generations  of  the  clouds  have  vanished 
Which  lingered  idly  here  through  autumn  days ; 

The  leaves  have  gone,  the  voices  of  the  tempest 
No  longer  roll  to  heaven  their  hymn  of  praise. 


The  Pioneers  47 

Deep  hid  in  snow  the  streams  with  muffled  murmurs 
Pour  down  dark  caverns  to  the  infinite  sea; 

The  awful  peace  has  vexed  their  restless  childhood; 
They  hurry  from  its  solemnity. 

Even  the  climbing  woods  are  mute  and  spellbound. 
And,  halting  midway  on  the  steep  ascent, 

The  patient  spruces  hold  their  breath  for  wonder, 
Nor  shake  the  snow  with  which  their  boughs  are  bent. 

Now  as  the  sun  goes  down  with  all  his  shining. 
Huge  shadows  creep  among  these  mighty  walls. 

And  on  the  haunting  ghosts  of  by-gone  ages 
The  dreamy  splendour  of  the  starlight  falls. 

Not  Nineveh,  nor  Babylon,  nor  Egypt, 

In  all  their  treasures  'neath  the  hungry  sand 

Can  show  a  sight  so  awful  or  majestic 
As  this  waste  temple  in  this  newer  land. 

The  king  that  reared  these  mighty  courts  was  Chaos, 

His  servants,  fire  and  elemental  war; 
The  Titan  hands  of  Earthquake  and  of  Ocean 

These  granite  slabs  and  pillars  laid  in  store. 

And,  lauding  here  the  vast  and  loving  Father, 
The  ages  one  by  one  have  knelt  and  prayed. 

Until  the  ghostly  echoes  of  their  worship 
Come  back  and  make  man's  puny  heart  afraid. 

F.  G.  Scott. 


THE  PIONEERS 

All  you  who  in  your  acres  broad 

Know  Nature  in  its  charms. 
With  pictured  dale  and  fruitful  sod, 

And  herds  on  verdant  farms. 
Remember  those  who  fought  the  trees 

And  early  hardships  braved, 
And  so  for  us  of  all  degrees 

All  from  the  forest  saved. 


48  The  Pioneers 

And  you  who  stroll  in  leisured  ease 

Along  your  city  squares, 
Thank  those  who  there  have  fought  the  trees 

And  howling  wolves  and  bears. 
They  met  the  proud  woods  in  the  face, 

Those  gloomy  shades  and  stem; 
Withstood  and  conquered,  and  your  race 

Supplants  the  pine  and  fern. 

Where'er  we  look  their  work  is  there, 

Now  land  and  man  are  free: 
On  every  side  the  view  grows  fair. 

And  perfect  yet  shall  be. 
The  credit  their's,  who  all  day  fought 

The  stubborn  giant  hosts; 
We  have  but  built  on  what  they  wrought, 

Their's  were  the  honour-posts. 

Though  plain  their  lives  and  rude  their  dress. 

No  common  men  were  they; 
Some  came  for  scorn  of  slavishness 

That  ruled  lands  far  away; 
And  some  came  here  for  conscience's  sake. 

For  Empire  and  for  King; 
And  some  for  Love  a  home  to  make. 

Their  dear  ones  here  to  bring. 

First  staunch  men  left,  for  Britain's  name, 

The  South's  prosperity; 
And  Highland  clans  from  Scotland  came — 

Their  sires  had  aye  been  free; 
And  England  oft  her  legions  gave 

To  found  a  race  of  pluck; 
And  ever  came  the  poor  and  brave 

And  took  the  axe  and  struck. 

Each  hewed,  and  saw  a  dream-like  home ! 

Hewed  on — a  settlement ! 
Struck  hard — through  mists  the  spire  and  dome 

The  distance  rim  indent ! 
So  honoured  be  they  midst  your  ease. 

And  give  them  well  their  due; 
Honour  to  those  who  fought  the  trees. 

And  made  a  land  for  you ! 

William  Douw  Lighthall. 


Companions  in  Solitude  49 


COMPANIONS  IN  SOLITUDE,  or  REMINISCENCES  OF 

THE  BUSH 

This  generation  ne'er  can  know 
The  toils  we  had  to  undergo, 
While  laying  the  great  forests  low. 

For  many  a  weary  year  I  wrought, 
With  poverty  and  hardship  fought. 
And  hardly  had  I  time  for  thought. 


In  every  stroke,  in  every  blow. 
In  every  towering  pine  laid  low, 
I  felt  a  triumph  o'er  a  foe. 


Each  knotty  hemlock  old  and  brown, 
Each  elm  in  thunder  hurling  down, 
A  jewel  added  to  my  crown.  ^  ^.^ 

If  e'er  my  heart  within  me  died. 

Then  up  would  start  my  stubborn  pride, 

And  dash  the  coward  thoughts  aside ! 

And  hope  kept  ringing  in  my  ear, 

"Be  brave;  for  what  hast  thou  to  fear — 

The  heavens  are  watching  o'er  thee  here!  " 

But  still  some  wandering  sympathy, 
Some  song  learned  on  my  mother's  knee — 
Came  with  the  bread  of  life  to  me. 

Save  for  those  rain  drops  from  on  high — 
Those  fountains  opened  in  the  sky — 
My  life  streams  would  have  all  gone  dry. 

Until  that  time  I  little  knew 

What  books  for  lonely  hearts  can  do, 

Till  spirits  round  my  hearth  they  drew. 

D 


50  Companions  in  Solitude 

My  cabin  seemed  a  whole  world  wide  1 
Kings  entered  in  without  their  pride, 
And  warriors  laid  their  swords  aside ! 

There  came  the  Saxon,  there  the  Celt, 
And  all  had  knelt  where  I  had  knelt, 
For  all  had  felt  what  I  had  felt. 

I  saw — from  clime  and  creed  apart — 
Still  heaving  'neath  their  robes  of  art — 
The  universal  human  heart. 

And  Homer  and  Sir  Walter  Scott — 
They  entered  in  my  humble  cot 
And  cheered  with  tales  my  lonely  lot. 

And  Bums  came  singing  songs  divine, 
His  heart  and  soul  in  every  line; 
A  glorious  company  was  mine. 

I  was  a  brother  to  the  great ! 
Shakespeare  himself  on  me  did  wait, 
With  leaves  torn  from  the  book  of  fate^ 

They  asked  me  not  of  rank  or  creed. 
And  yet  suppHed  my  spirit's  need; 
0,  they  were  comforters  indeed  I 

And  showed  me  by  their  magic  art, 
Those  awful  things  at  which  we  start — 
That  hover  round  the  human  heart. 

Fate,  ever  watching  with  her  shears ! 
And  mixing  all  our  hope  with  fears, 
And  drenching  all  our  joys  in  tears. 

They  showed  how  contradictions  throng; 
How  by  our  weakness  we  are  strong; 
And  how  we're  righted  by  the  wrong: 

Unveiled  new  regions  to  my  sight. 
And  made  the  weary  winter's  night, 
A  perfect  revel  of  delight. 


Acres  of  Your  Own  5 1 


ACRES  OF  YOUR  OWN 

Here's  the  road  to  independence, 
Who  would  bow  and  dance  attendance ! 
Who  with  e'er  a  spark  of  pride, 
While  the  bush  is  wild  and  wide, 
Would  be  but  a  hanger-on. 
Begging  favours  from  a  throne; 
While  beneath  yon  smiling  sun, 
Farms  by  labour  can  be  won. 
Up !  be  stirring,  be  alive, 
Get  upon  a  farm  and  thrive ! 
He's  a  king  upon  a  throne, 
Who  has  acres  of  his  own ! 

Tho'  the  cabin's  walls  are  bare. 
What  of  that,  if  love  is  there? 
What,  although  your  back  is  bent. 
There  are  none  to  hound  for  rent; 
What,  tho'  you  must  chop  and  plough. 
None  dare  ask,  "  What  doest  thou?  " 
What,  tho'  homespun  be  your  coat. 
Kings  might  envy  you  your  lot. 
Up !  be  stirring,  be  alive. 
Get  upon  a  farm  and  thrive ! 
He's  a  king  upon  a  throne. 
Who  has  acres  of  his  own ! 

Honest  labour  thou  would'st  shirk — 

Thou  art  far  too  good  for  work; 

Such  gentility's  a  fudge. 

True  men  all  must  toil  and  drudge. 

Nature's  true  nobility 

Scorns  such  mock  gentility; 

Fools  but  talk  of  blood  and  birth — 

Every  man  must  prove  his  worth. 

Up !  be  stirring,  be  alive. 

Get  upon  a  farm  and  thrive ! 

He's  a  king  upon  a  throne 

Who  has  acres  of  his  own ! 

Alexander  McLachlan. 


52  Song  of  the  Axe 


SONG  OF  THE  AXE 

High  grew  the  snow  beneath  the  low  hung  sky, 
And  all  was  silent  in  the  wilderness; 
In  trance  of  stillness  Nature  heard  her  God 
Rebuilding  her  spent  fires,  and  veil'd  her  face 
While  the  Great  Worker  brooded  o'er  His  work. 

"  Bite  deep  and  wide,  0  Axe,  the  tree, 
What  doth  thy  bold  voice  promise  me?  " 

"  I  promise  thee  all  joyous  things, 
That  furnish  forth  the  lives  of  Kings!  " 

"  For  every  silver  ringing  blow, 
Cities  and  palaces  shall  grow!  " 

"  Bite  deep  and  wide,  0  Axe,  the  tree, 
Tell  wider  prophecies  to  me." 

"  When  rust  hath  gnaw'd  me  deep  and  red, 
A  nation  strong  shall  lift  her  head !  " 

"  His  crown  the  very  Heavens  shall  smite, 
Mons  shall  build  him  in  his  might!  " 

"  Bite  wide  and  deep,  0  Axe,  the  tree; 
Bright  Seer,  help  on  thy  prophecy!  " 

Max  smote  the  snow-weight'd  tree,  and  lightly  laughed. 
"  See  friend,"  he  cried  to  one  that  look'd  and  smil'd, 
"  My  axe  and  I — we  do  immortal  tasks — 
We  build  up  nations,  this  my  axe  and  I !  " 

Isabella  Valancy  Crawford. 


Canadian  Camping  Song  53 


CANADIAN  CAMPING  SONG 

A  WHITE  tent  pitched  by  a  glassy  lake, 

Well  under  a  shady  tree, 
Or  by  ripphng  rills  from  the  grand  old  hills, 

Is  the  summer  home  for  me. 
I  fear  no  blaze  of  the  noontide  rays, 

For  the  woodland  glades  are  mine. 
The  fragrant  air,  and  that  perfume  rare 

The  odour  of  forest  pine. 

Chorus 

The  wild  woods,  the  wild  woods, 

The  wild  woods  give  me; 
The  wild  woods  of  Canada, 

The  boundless  and  free ! 

A  cooling  plunge  at  the  break  of  day, 

A  paddle,  a  row,  or  sail, 
With  always  a  fish  for  a  mid-day  dish. 

And  plenty  of  Adam's  ale. 
With  rod  or  gun,  or  in  hammock  swung. 

We  glide  through  the  pleasant  days ; 
When  darkness  falls  on  our  canvas  walls. 

We  kindle  the  camp  fire's  blaze. 

From  out  the  gloom  sails  the  silv'ry  moon, 

O'er  forests  dark  and  still. 
Now  far,  now  near,  ever  sad  and  clear, 

Comes  the  plaint  of  the  whip-poor-will; 
With  song  and  laugh,  and  with  kindly  chaff, 

We  startle  the  birds  above, 
Then  rest  tired  heads  on  our  cedar  beds. 

To  dream  of  the  ones  we  love. 

J.  D.  Edgar. 


54  Voyageur's  Song 


VOYAGEUR'S  SONG 

Our  mother  is  the  good,  green  earth, 

Our  seat  her  bosom  broad ; 
And  sure  in  plenty  and  in  dearth 

Of  our  six  feet  of  sod, 
We  welcome  fate  with  careless  mirth 

And  dangerous  paths  have  trod, 
Holding  our  lives  of  little  worth. 

And  fearing  none  but  God. 

When  ankle  deep,  bright  streamlets  slide 

Above  the  fretted  sand, 
Our  frail  canoes,  hke  shadows,  glide 

Swift  through  the  silent  land; 
Nor  should,  broad-shouldered,  in  some  tide 

Rocks  rise  on  every  hand. 
Our  path  will  we  confess  denied. 

Nor  cowardly  seek  the  strand. 

The  foam  may  leap  like  frightened  cloud 

That  hears  the  tempest  scream. 
The  waves  may  fold  their  whitened  shroud 

Where  ghastly  ledges  gleam ; 
With  muscles  strained  and  backs  well  bowed 

And  poles  that  breaking  seem. 
We  shoot  the  sault,  whose  torrents  proud 

Itself  our  lord  did  deem. 

The  broad  traverse  is  cold  and  deep. 

And  treacherous  smiles  it  hath. 
And  with  its  sickle  of  death  doth  reap. 

With  woe  for  aftermath: 
But  though  the  wind-vexed  waves  may  leap. 

Like  cougars,  in  our  path. 
Still  forward  on  our  way  we  keep. 

Nor  heed  their  futile  wrath. 

Where  glitter  trackless  wastes  of  snow 
Beneath  the  Northern  light. 


At  the  Cedars  55 

On  netted  shoes  we  noiseless  go, 

Nor  heed  though  keen  winds  bite. 
The  shaggy  bears  our  prowess  know, 

The  white  fox  fears  our  might, 
And  wolves,  when  warm  our  camp  fires  glow, 

With  angry  snarls  take  flight. 

Where  forest  fastnesses  extend, 

Ne'er  trod  by  man  before, 
Where  cries  of  loon  and  wild  duck  blend 

With  some  dark  torrent's  roar, 
And  timid  deer,  unawed,  descend 

Along  the  lake's  still  shore, 
We  blaze  the  trees  and  onward  wend 

To  ravish  nature's  store. 

Leve,  Leve,  and  Couche,  at  mom  and  eve 

These  calls  the  echoes  wake. 
We  rise  and  forward  fare,  nor  grieve 

Though  long  portage  we  make, 
Until  the  sky  the  sun  gleams  leave 

And  shadows  cowl  the  lake; 
And  then  we  rest  and  fancies  weave 

For  wife  or  sweetheart's  sake. 

Arthur  Weir. 


AT  THE  CEDARS 

You  had  two  girls,  Baptiste, 

One  is  Virginie — 
Hold  hard,  Baptiste, 

Listen  to  me. 

The  whole  drive  was  jammed, 
In  that  bend  at  the  Cedars; 
The  rapids  were  dammed 
And  crammed ;  you  might  know 
The  devil  had  clinched  them  below. 

We  worked  three  days — not  a  budge ! 
"  She's  tight  as  a  wedge, 
On  the  ledge," 
Says  our  foreman, 


56  At  the  Cedars 

"  Mon  Dieu !  boys,  look  here, 
We  must  get  this  thing  clear." 
He  cursed  at  the  men, 
And  we  went  for  it  then, 
With  our  cant-dog's  crow; 
We  just  gave  "  he  yo  ho," 
When  she  gave  a  big  shove 
From  above. 

The  gang  yelled,  and  bore 
For  the  shore; 
The  logs  gave  a  grind. 
Like  a  wolf's  jaws  behind, 
And  as  quick  as  a  flash, 
With  a  shove  and  a  crash. 
They  were  down  in  a  mash. 
But  I  and  ten  men. 
All,  but  Isaac  Dufour, 
Were  ashore. 

He  leaped  on  a  log  in  front  of  the  rush. 

And  shot  out  from  the  bend. 

While  the  jam  roared  behind; 

As  he  floated  along. 

He  balanced  his  pole. 

And  tossed  us  a  song. 

But  just  as  we  cheered, 
Up  darted  a  log  from  the  bottom, 
Leaped  thirty  feet,  fair  and  square, 
And  came  down  on  his  own. 

He  went  up  like  a  block 

With  the  shock; 

And  when  he  was  there, 

In  the  air, 

Kissed  his  hand 

To  the  land. 

When  he  dropped 

My  heart  stopped. 

For  the  front  logs  had  caught  him; 


The  Music  of  the  Reel  ^'] 

And  crushed  him; 
When  he  rose  in  his  place 
There  was  blood  on  his  face. 

There  were  some  girls,  Baptiste, 
Picking  berries  on  the  hillside, 
Where  the  river  curls,  Baptiste, 
You  know — on  the  still  side; 
She  was  down  by  the  water. 
She  saw  Isaac 
Fall  back. 

She  didn't  scream,  Baptiste; 
She  launched  her  canoe — 
It  did  seem,  Baptiste, 
That  she  wanted  to  die  too, 
For  before  you  could  think. 
The  birch  cracked  like  a  shell 
In  that  rush  of  hell, 
And  I  saw  them  both  sink — 

Baptiste ! — 

He  had  two  girls, 
One  is  Virginie; 
What  God  calls  the  other 
Is  not  known  to  me. 

Duncan  Campbell  Scott. 


THE  MUSIC  OF  THE  REEL 

Come  !  All  ye  jolly  fishermen,  who  love  a  cheerful  song 
Around  the  blazing  camp-fire,  where  hearts  are  true  and 
leal. 
To  the  gentle  art  whose  mysteries  ye  have  studied  well  and 
long, 
And  join  with  me  in  praise  of  the  "  music  of  the  reel!  " 

They  may  prate  to  us  of  Wagner,  or  Beethoven,  or  Mozart, 
Of  harmony  and  melody,  ecstatically  kneel 


58  The   Mixer 

In  soul-entrancing  rapture  at  the  shrine  of  classic  art — 
But  we  love  the  simple  rhythm  of  the  "  music  of  the  reel." 

By  the  swiftly  rushing  river,  or  the  calm  and  peaceful  lake, 
Where  Nature's  choir  makes  music  that  the  dullest  soul 
must  feel; 
When  the  sun  peeps  through  the  tree-tips,  calling  slumberers 
to  wake, 
Then  the  heart  beats  time  responsive  to  the  "  music  of 
the  reel." 

There's  gladness  in  the  bird's  wild  flight,  or  rush  of  captured 
fish; 
Contentment  in  a  hard-earned  bag  or  in  a  well-filled  creel; 
But  the  sportsman's  pulse-beats  quicken  as  he  hears  the  well- 
known  "  swish," 
And  the  line  runs  whistling  merrily  "  the  music  of  the 
reel." 

Then  a  health  to  all  true  fishermen,  a  bumper  let  it  be ! 
Shake  up  the  blazing  pine-knots  ere  the  shades  upon  us 
steal ! 
And  when  the  darksome  night  sinks  down,  and  we  but  dimly 
see. 
May  whispering  memories  sing  to  us  "  the  music  of  the 
reel!" 

J.  M.  Baylis. 


THE  MIXER 

They  are  fresh  from  all  creation,  from  the  lands  beyond  the 

seas. 
Where  a  man  accepts  existence  by  the  grace  of  "if  you 

please," 
From  the  homes  of  rank  and  title,  from  the  slums  of  want 

and  woe. 
They  are  coming  as  the  cattle  that  have  nowhere  else  to  go; 
They  are  haggard,  huddled,  homeless,  frightened  at — they 

know  not  what; 
With  a  few  unique  exceptions  they're  a  disappointing  lot; 
But  I  take  'em  as  I  get  'em,  soldier,  sailor,  saint,  and  clown, 
And  I  turn  'em  out  Canadians — all  but  the  yellow  and  brown. 


The  Mixer  59 

Oh,  I  take  'em  from  the  counter,  the  factory,  the  mine. 
They  are  rough-and-ready  rascals  till  I  lick  'em  into  line; 
They  are  coming,  coming,  coming,  from  the  land  of  Who- 

Knows-Where ; 
Black  and  white  and  many-tinted,  brown  and  yellow,  dark 

and  fair; 
They  are  coming  from  the  valley,  from  the  prairie,  from  the 

hill. 
They  are  coming  from  the  "May  I?"  to  the  country  of 

"I  Will"; 
And  for  some  the  smart  of  failure,  and  for  some  achievement's 

crown. 
As  I  roll  'em  out  Canadians — all  but  the  yellow  and  brown. 

In  my  new-made  day-old  cities  I  apply  them  to  the  test, 
Where  they  mix  and  clash  and  scramble  with  the  Spirit  of  the 

West; 
With  the  lust  of  gain  before  them,  and  the  lust  of  sin  within, 
Where  a  few  go  down  the  deeper,  but  the  many  rise  and  win ; 
Where  the  sons  of  men  are  equal  in  the  eyes  of  other  men, 
And  the  man  who  falls  defeated  rises  up  to  fight  again; 
I  mix  'em,  mix  'em,  mix  'em,  in  the  turmoil  of  the  town, 
As  I  turn  'em  out  Canadians — all  but  the  yellow  and  brown. 

And  I  take  'em  in  the  forest,  where  the  axes  bite  the  tree, 
And  I  school  'em  in  the  building  of  this  country  of  the  free; 
In  the  vermin-glutted  bunk-house  they  can  spend  the  stingy 

nights. 
Where  their  only  recreations  are  the  "  blow-outs  "  and  the 

fights ; 
In  the  spring  they're  on  the  river,  where  the  logs  go  racing  by, 
And  they  haven't  time  to  wonder  who  will  be  the  next  to  die, 
There  are  some  will  ride  in  safety,  while  the  others  quietly 

drown, 
As  I  turn  'em  out  Canadians — all  but  the  yellow  and  brown. 

In  the  camps  of  railway  builders  you  will  find  'em  by  the 

score, 
Where  a  man  is  set  to  doing  things  he  never  saw  before. 
Where    they    set   the   greenhorn   handling   glycerine   and 

dynamite — 
Just  a  stumble  or  a  mishap  and  it  blows  him  out  of  sight — 


6o  The  Mixer 

Where  the  Yankee  fights  with  fire-armS;  and  the  Dago  with 

his  knife, 
And  a  little  bit  of  banter  may  cost  a  man  his  life; 
Where  they  learn  to  reach  for  weapons  at  the  signal  of  a 

frown — 
There  I  turn  'em  out  Canadians — all  but  the  yellow  and  brown. 

In  the  silent  sunMt  prairies  they  are  listening  to  the  call 
That  is  calling,  caUing,  calling,  "  Come  you  up,  why  will  you 

fall? 
Here  is  pay  for  every  worker,  here's  reward  for  honest  toil. 
And  a  man  may  grow  to  heaven  if  his  roots  are  in  the  soil." 
They  are  putting  off  the  old  things,  they  are  trying  on  the  new, 
In  the  battle  with  conditions  they  are  proving  what  is  true; 
They  are  earnest,  they  are  hopeful,  and  no  hand  can  hold 

them  down. 
As  I  roll  'em  out  Canadians — all  but  the  yellow  and  brown. 

In  the  great  big  white-walled  winter,  when  the  soul  cries  out 

in  dread — 
In  the  nameless  dread  of  winter  when  the  summer  hopes  are 

dead — 
When  the  thoughts  turn  backward,  backward,  to  the  land 

beyond  the  sea. 
And  the  weak  ones  and  the  false  ones  would  renounce  their 

faith  in  me — 
Then  I  curse  them,  starve  them,  freeze  them,  until  every 

naked  bone 
Rattles  in  the  howling  blizzard,  "  I  accept  you  as  my  own." 
In  the  sacrament  of  suffering  their  memories  I  drown 
As  I  roll  'em  out  Canadians — all  but  the  black  and  brown. 

In  the  city,  on  the  prairie,  in  the  forest,  in  the  camp. 
In  the  mountain  clouds  of  colour,  in  the  fog-white  river  damp. 
From  Atlantic  to  Pacific,  from  the  Great  Lakes  to  the  Pole, 
I  am  mixing  strange  ingredients  into  a  common  whole; 
Every  hope  shall  build  upon  me,  ever}'  heart  shall  be  my  own, 
The  ambitions  of  my  people  shall  be  mine,  and  mine  alone; 
Not  a  sacrifice  so  great,  but  they  will  gladly  lay  it  down. 
When  I  turn  them  out  Canadians — all  but  the  black  and 
brown. 


A  Prairie  Heroine  6i 


A  PRAIRIE  HEROINE 

They  were  running  out  the  try  lines,  they  were  staking  out 
the  grade; 

Through  the  hills  they  had  to  measure,  through  the  sloughs 
they  had  to  wade; 

They  were  piercing  unknown  regions,  they  were  crossing  name- 
less streams. 

With  the  prairie  for  a  pillow,  and  the  sky  above  their  dreams; 

They  were  mapping  unborn  cities  in  the  age-long  pregnant 
clay, 

When  they  came  upon  a  Httle  mound  across  the  right-of-way. 

There  were  violets  growing  on  it,  and  a  buttercup  or  two, 

That  whispered  of  affection  ever  old  and  ever  new. 

And  a  little  ring  of  white-washed  stones,  light  in  the  summer 

sun. 
But  of  marble  slab  or  granite,  pile  or  pillar,  there  was  none; 
And  across  the  sleeping  prairie  lay  a  little,  low-built  shack. 
With  a  garden  patch  before  it  and  a  wheat-field  at  its  back. 

"  Well,  boys,  we'd  better  see  him,  and  he  hadn't  ought  to  kick, 
For  we'll  give  him  time  to  move  it  if  he  does  it  pretty  quick." 
But — scarcely  had  the  foreman  spoke  when  straight  across 

the  farm 
They  saw  the  settler  coming  with  a  rifle  on  his  arm; 
Some  would  ha'  hiked  for  cover  but  they  had  no  place  to  run. 
But  most  of  them  decided  they  would  stay  and  see  the  fun. 

The  farmer  was  the  first  to  speak,  "  I  hate  to  interfere. 
And  right  glad  I  am  to  see  the  railway  comin'  near; 
But  before  you  drive  your  pickets  across  this  piece  of  land 
You  ought  to  hear  the  story  or  you  will  not  understand : 
It's  the  story  of  a  girl  who  was  as  true  as  she  was  brave. 
And  all  that  now  remains  of  her  is  in  that  little  grave. 

"  I  didn't  want  to  bring  her  when  I  hit  the  trail  out  West, 
I  knew  I  shouldn't  do  it,  and  I  did  my  level  best 
To  coax  her  not  to  come  out  for  a  year  or  two,  at  least. 
But  to  stay  and  take  it  easy  with  her  friends  down  in  the 
East; 


62  A  Prairie  Heroine 

But  while  I  coaxed  and  argued  I  was  feelin'  mighty  glum, 
And  right  down  in  my  heart  I  kep'  a-hopin'  she  would  come. 

"  Well,  by  rail  and  boat  and  saddle  we  got  out  here  at  last, 
A-livin'  in  the  future,  and  forgettin'  of  the  past; 
We  built  ourseh^es  a  little  home,  and  in  our  work  and  care 
It  seemed  to  me  she  always  took  what  was  the  lion's  share; 
God  knows  just  what  she  suffered,  but  she  hid  it  with  a  smile. 
And  made  out  that  she  thought  I  was  the  only  thing  worth 
while. 

"  She  stood  it  through  the  summer  and  the  warm  brown 

days  of  fall. 
And  of  the  voices  calling  her  she  would  not  hear  the  call; 
But  when  the  winter  settled  with  its  cold,  white  pall  of  snow. 
She  seemed  to  whiten  with  it,  but  she  thought  I  did  not  know; 
At  last  I  couldn't  stand  it  any  longer,  so  I  said, 
'  I  think  you'd  better  try  and  spend  a  day  or  two  in  bed 
While  I  go  for  a  doctor.     It's  only  sixty  miles ! ' 
She  gave  a  little  wistful  look,  half  hidden  in  her  smiles. 
And  said,  '  Perhaps  you'd  better,  though  I  think  I'll  be  all 

right 
When  the  spring  comes.' — Well,  I  started  out  that  night. 

"  I  made  the  trip  on  horseback,  and  we  floundered  on  all 

night. 
And  reached  our  destination  in  the  early  morning  light. 
But  the  doctor  had  gone  out  of  town — just  where,  no  one 

could  say. 
And  a  lump  rose  in  my  chest  that  fairly  took  my  breath 

away. 
But  I  daren't  stay  there  thinking,  and  my  search  for  him 

was  vain. 
So  I  bought  some  wine  and  brandy  and  I  started  home  again. 

"  Forgetful  of  my  horse,  I  spent  the  whole  night  on  the  road. 
Till  early  in  the  morning  he  collapsed  beneath  his  load; 
I  saw  the  brute  was  done  for,  and  although  it  made  me  cry, 
I  hacked  into  his  jug'lar  vein  and  left  him  there  to  die; 
And  then  I  shouldered  the  supplies  and  staggered  on  alone. 
And  thinking  of  my  wife's  distress,  I  quite  forgot  my  own. 


A  Prairie  Heroine  63 

"  She  must  ha'  watched  all  night  for  me^  for  in  the  morning 

grey 
She  saw  me  stagger  in  the  snow,  and  fall  beside  the  way, 
And  God  knows  how  she  did  it — she  was  only  skin  and  bone — 
But  she  came  out  here  and  found  me  and  dragged  me  home 

alone, 
And  she  took  the  precious  liquor  that  had  cost  us  all  so  dear, 
And  poured   it  down   this  worthless  hulk  that's  standin' 

blattin'  here. 

"  I  guess  you  know  what  happened :  I  Hved,  she  passed  away; 
I  robed  her  in  her  wedding-dress  and  laid  her  in  the  clay; 
And  every  spring  I  plant  the  flowers  that  grow  upon  her 

grave. 
For  I  hold  the  spot  as  sacred  as  the  Arimathean's  cave : 
And  when  the  winter  snows  have  come,  and  all  is  white  and 

still, 
I  spread  a  blanket  on  the  mound  to  keep  out  frost  and  chill. 

"  Folks  say  I've  got  a  screw  loose,  that  I've  gone  to  acting 

queer, 
But  I  sometimes  hear  her  speaking,  and  I  know  she's  always 

near; 
And  sometimes  in  the  night  I  feel  the  pressure  of  her  hand 
And  for  a  blessed  hour  I  share  with  her  the  Promised  Land : — 
Let  man  or  devil  undertake  to  desecrate  my  dead. 
And  as  sure  as  God's  in  heaven  I  will  pump  him  full  of  lead." 

They  were  rough-and-ready  railway  men  who  stood  about 

the  spot. 
They  were  men  that  hed  and  gambled,  they  were  men  that 

drank  and  fought. 
But  some  of  them  were  sneezing,  and  some  were  coughing 

bad. 
And  some  were  blowing  noses  on  anything  they  had; 
And  some  of  them  were  swallowing  at  lumps  that  shouldn't 

come. 
And  some  were  swearing  softly,  and  some  were  simply  dumb. 

At  last  the  foreman  found  his  voice;   "  I  guess  your  claim  is 

sound, 
I  wouldn't  care  to  run  a  track  across  that  piece  of  ground; 


64  Rough  Ben 

We'll  have  to  change  our  lay-out  but  I  hope  we  have  the 

grace 
To  build  a  fitting  monument  to  mark  that  holy  place; 
Put  me  down  for  a  hundred;  now,  boys,  how  much  for  you?  " 
And  they  answered  in  a  chorus,  "  We'll  see  the  business 

through." 

The  passengers  upon  a  certain  railway  o'er  the  plain 
See  a  shining  shaft  of  marble  from  the  windows  of  the  train, 
But  they  do  not  know  the  story  of  the  girl-wife  in  the  snow 
And  the  broken-hearted  farmer  with  his  lonely  load  of  woe. 
And  none  of  them  have  guessed  that  the  deflection  in  the  line 
Is  the  railway  builders'  tribute  to  a  prairie  heroine. 

R.  J.  C.  Stead. 


ROUGH  BEN 
(An  Incident  0/  the  North-West  Rebellion) 

"  Starved  to  death,"  sounds  kind  0'  hard,  eh? 

But  it's  true  I'm  holdin'  this  'ere  knife. 
An'  that  woman  dumped  in  the  grave  to-day 

Yes,  "  starved  to  death,"  sir,  'pon  my  Hfe. 

Ye  wonder  how  in  a  land  o'  plenty 

When  even  Injuns  wallop  around 
With  their  belts  a-loosened  of  over  feedin'. 

Fur  a  poor  white  critter  grub  ain't  found. 

Well;  'y'  see  ther's  starvin'  deeper'n  eatin', 
An  thet  thar  woman  we  slid  to-day 

Ain't  died  o'  want  of  bannock  and  bacon; 
No  !  but  a  durned  sight  crueller  way. 

S'posin'  ye  sit  on  the  fence  rail,  mister. 
Fur  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  plow  nor  sow. 

See  them  there  oxen — "  G'long,  ye  beggars!  " — 
(The  flies  is  eatin'  their  heads  off)  "  Whoa!  " 


Rough  Ben  65 

Wal'^  some  three  years  ago'n — no  matter — 
When  this  yer'  place  wam't  much  to  see, 

Me  and  Bill  Martin  and  Bo'lin's  brother 
Cum  and  squatted^  jest  whar'  we  be. 

An  by'm'bye  other  folkSj  leamin' 

Land  in  the  great  Nor- West  had  riz, 
Cum  pourin'  in  top  o'  one  another, 

Each  squatter  claimin'  a  patch  as  his. 

An'  among  the  lot  that  came  tom-foolin' 

Was  an  English  chap  as  had  no  right 
To  s'periment  with  a  Nor- West  winter; 

The  fool  bro't  his  sister  an'  took  up  a  site. 

Wal',  he  pitched  his  tent  ('twas  a  waggon  cover), 
An'  thar'  they  lived  all  summer  thro', 

An'  managed  some  way  by  winter  cummin' 
To  knock  up  a  shack — jest  them  thar  two. 

They  didn't  mix  with  the  folks  'en  gen'l. 

But  kep  in  like,  an'  read  fine  books. 
An'  after  a  spell  the  lad  got  aiHn', 

With  worrit  an'  fretted  an'  pinched-like  looks,: 

An'  soon  he  stopped  goin'  out  to  water 
The  cattle  (two  head  o'  steer  he'd  bought), 

I  see'd  the  gal  a-tryin'  to  lead  'em. 
An'  I  up  an'  offers  to  guide  the  lot. 

She  wasn't  proud  with  me,  sir,  never, 

Her  little  hand  'ud  lay  in  my  own 
Like  a  grasshopper's  wing  on  an  acre  of  fallow; 

An'  her  eyes !  my  God !  they'd  melt  a  stone. 

Wal,  he  pinched,  and  coughed,  an'  nigher'n  nigher. 
What  she,  cryin',  called  "  Death's  Angel  "  cum. 

An'  off  he  went  like  a  snuff  0'  candle, 
A-takin  a  homestead  beyond  the  sun. 

We  ploughed  him  in — when  the  sun  was  settin', 
On'y  we  na'bours  around  you  see; 


66  Rough  Ben 

An'  we  left  him  covered,  an'  her  a-cryin' 
Sumthin'  about  "  Come  back  to  me." 

An'  the  cattle  died — I'm  blest  if  they  didn't, 
Contrary  like — and  the  claim  he  owned, 

An'  plow'd  an'  sow'd  'th  his  two  gent's  handles, 
Want  worth  a  durn  when  the  Injuns  cum, 

I  found  her  sittin'  and  kinder  cryin' 

By  the  hill  as  whar'  we  had  rolled  him  in; 

Lookin'  so  peaked  an'  white  an'  ghost-like 
I  felt  like  wishin'  she  was  with  him. 

Wal !    The  cattle  was  dead,  the  ground  w'arnt  ready, 

An'  the  Injuns  threat'nin'  every  day 
To  hang  our  wigs  to  the  belts  as  held  'em 

Chock  full  of  rot-gut,  spite  of  Hudson's  Bay, 

All  at  onc't  I  see'd  her  trouble, 

'Twas  want  o'  wimmin  to  cuddle  her  in. 

An'  the  nearest  petticoat  too,  by  thunder! 
Thirty  miles  off — an'  she  lived  by  sin. 

An'  sooner'n  that — wal,  I'd  give  her, 
The  best  I  owned,  sir,  my  land  an'  Hfe; 

It  was  shelter,  you  see,  an'  Injuns  comin' 
Jest  frightened  her  into  a-bein'  my  wife. 

Oh !  Ye  may  star'  an'  handle  yer  shooter. 
But,  afore  high  God,  she  was  dear  to  me; 

I  toted  her  back  to  my  old  log  cabin. 
An'  worshipp'd  the  groun'  she  walked — an'  she? 

Wal,  she  tried  to  smile  and  call  me  "  Benny," 
When  all  my  life  I'd  been  called  "  Rough  Ben," 

An'  I  carted  her  roun'  like  you'd  a  luck  penny. 
An'  the  Injuns?     Oh,  Gov'ment  settled  them. 

I  mind  the  troops  cum  marchin'  up  here. 

An'  the  garrison  we  was  all  shut  in, 
An'  among  the  redcoats  thet  came  paradin' 

Was  as  handsom'  a  chap  as  ever  I  seen. 


Rough  Ben  67 

An'  while  we  popped  at  the  red-skins'  top-nots, 

Them  soldier  fellows  as  saved  our  lives 
Cum  marchin'  into  the  wood-pile  barracks, 

An'  what  did  I  see  with  my  own  two  eyes, 

But  my  Httle  girl  as  I  took  under  cover 

Grow  red  an'  white  and  fell  like  a  star; 
When  out  from  the  file  that  peart-faced  stranger 

Shot  like  an  arrow  to  whar'  she  war^ 

Uncle,  sez  I,  or  cousin,  mebbe. 

As  went  to  school  whar'  she  got  them  books  ? 
But  when  he  kissed  my  gal  I  "  tumbled," 

An'  shook  Hke  the  leaves  that  shadder  the  brooks. 

An'  then  and  thar'  I  lamed  her  story 
(Too  late !  for  now  she  was  straight  my  wife). 

For  th^  parson  said  'twas  for  ever  an'  ever, 
An'  her  nor  me  couldn't  alter  our  Hfe. 

Wal,  that  evenin'  I  left  them  airly 

(Tm  a-going'  to  lead  a  duck,  I  sed), 
But  I  know'd  that  wench's  heart  was  breakin', 

An'  I  gave  her  a  chance  to  skip  'th  the  lad. 

But  she  didn't — I  found  her  thar', 

Mendin'  an'  bakin'  the  usual  way, 
But  a  look  in  her  eyes  thar'  was  like  unto 

A  threat'nin'  rain  on  a  summer  day. 

He'd  gone  an'  left  her  to  me  as  took  her 

Jest  fur  to  give  her  shelter  an'  care, 
(I  know'd  'f  the  brother  'd  lived  she'd  never 

A-looked  at  me,  mor'n  them  oxen  thar). 

Somehow  she  kinder  wilted,  an'  never 

Ask'd  no  questions,  but  sort  o'  still; 
With  thet  look  of  hunger,  a-eatin'  her  heart  out — 

Thet's  the  kind  0'  starvin'  is  sure  to  kill. 

I  fetch'd  the  best  of  eatin'  an'  drinkin' 
As  was  to  be  bo't  in  them  times  out  here; 


68  The  Spell  of  the  Yukon 

But  the  days  went  slidin'  into  winter, 

An',  mister,  with  snow-fly  an  empty  cheer. 

She  slid  away  from  me  sort  o'  quiet, 
W  never  a  moan,  but  "  Benny,  good  night!  " 

An'  me  an  the  neighbours,  as  alius  loved  her, 
Tuck'd  her  beside  him,  jest  out  o'  sight. 

An'  the  soldier-lover  that  left  her  starvin', 
I'd  like  to  put  a  ball  through  his  hide. 

What?   honour!  Another's!!   Y ou  loved  her  !! ! 
My  God !   You're  the  chap  for  who  she  died  1 

Gimme  your  hand,  and  here  above  her, 
Altho'  she  was  mine  by  a  parson's  swar', 

I  havn't  no  right  to  that  gal's  ashes. 
She  died  for  you,  an'  you  left  her  thar'. 

Me  and  me  oxen's  movin'  Westward, 

You  and  the  gal's  best  left  alone; 
She'll  rest  contenteder;  good-bye,  I'm  goin'. 

The  claim  is  your'n,  go  claim  your  own. 

K.  B.  Simpson. 


THE  SPELL  OF  THE  YUKON 

I  WANTED  the  gold  and  I  sought  it; 

I  scrabbled  and  worked  like  a  slave. 
Was  it  famine  or  scurvy? — I  fought  it; 

I  hurled  my  youth  into  a  grave. 
I  wanted  the  gold  and  I  got  it — 

Came  out  with  a  fortune  last  fall — 
Yet  somehow  life's  not  what  I  thought  it. 

And  somehow  the  gold  isn't  all. 

No,  there's  the  land  (have  you  seen  it?) 
It's  the  cussedest  land  that  I  know. 

From  the  big  dizzy  mountains  that  screen  it, 
To  the  deep  death-like  valleys  below. 


The  Spell  of  the  Yukon  69 

Some  say  God  was  tired  when  he  made  it; 

Some  say  it's  a  fine  land  to  shun; 
May  be:  but  there's  some  as  would  trade  it 

For  no  land  on  earth — and  I'm  one. 

You  come  to  get  rich  (damned  good  reason), 

You  feel  like  an  exile  at  first; 
You  hate  it  like  hell  for  a  season, 

And  then  you  are  worse  than  the  worst. 
It  grips  you  like  some  kinds  of  sinning; 

It  twists  you  from  foe  to  friend; 
It  seems  it's  been  since  the  beginning; 

It  seems  it  will  be  to  the  end. 

I've  stood  in  some  mighty-mouthed  hollow 

That's  plumb  full  of  hush  to  the  brim ; 
I've  watched  the  big,  husky  sun  wallow 

In  crimson  and  gold,  and  grow  dim, 
Till  the  moon  set  the  pearly  peaks  gleaming, 

And  the  stars  tumbled  out,  neck  and  crop, 
And  I  thought  that  I  surely  was  dreaming. 

With  the  peace  of  the  world  piled  on  top. 

The  summer — no  sweeter  was  ever; 

The  sunshiny  woods  all  a- thrill; 
The  greyling  asleep  in  the  river. 

The  bighorn  asleep  on  the  hill. 
The  strong  life  that  never  knows  harness ; 

The  wilds  where  the  caribou  call; 
The  freshness,  the  freedom,  the  famess — 

0  God !  how  I'm  stuck  on  it  all. 

The  winter !  the  brightness  that  blinds  you. 

The  white  land  looked  tight  as  a  drum. 
The  cold  fear  that  follows  and  finds  you, 

The  silence  that  bludgeons  you  dumb. 
The  snows  that  are  older  than  history. 

The  woods  where  the  weird  shadows  slant; 
The  stillness,  the  moonlight,  the  mystery, 

I've  bade  'em  good-bye — but  I  can't. 

There's  a  land  where  the  mountains  are  nameless. 
And  the  rivers  all  run  God  knows  where; 


70        The  Ballad  of  Hard-Luck  Henry- 
There  are  lives  that  are  erring  and  aimless, 

And  deaths  that  just  hang  by  a  hair; 
There  are  hardships  that  nobody  reckons; 

There  are  valleys  unpeopled  and  still; 
There's  a  land — oh !  it  beckons  and  beckons. 

And  I  want  to  go  back — and  I  will. 

They  are  making  my  money  diminish; 

I'm  sick  of  the  taste  of  champagne, 
Thank  God !  when  I'm  skinned  to  a  finish 

I'll  pike  to  the  Yukon  again. 
I'll  fight — and  you  bet  it's  no  sham  fight; 

It's  hell — but  I've  been  there  before; 
And  it's  better  than  this  by  a  damsite — 

So  now  for  the  Yukon  once  more. 

There's  gold,  and  it's  haunting  and  haunting; 

It's  luring  me  on  as  of  old; 
Yet  it  isn't  the  gold  that  I'm  wanting. 

So  much  as  just  finding  the  gold. 
It's  the  great,  big,  broad  land  'way  up  yonder, 

It's  the  forests  where  silence  has  lease; 
It's  the  beauty  that  thrills  me  with  wonder. 

It's  the  stillness  that  fills  me  with  peace. 

R.  W.  Service. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  HARD-LUCK  HENRY 

Now  wouldn't  you  expect  to  find  a  man  an  awful  crank 
That's  staked  out  three  hundred  claims,  and  every  one  a 

blank ; 
That's  followed  every  fool  stampede,  and  seen  the  rise  and 

fall 
Of  camps  where  men  got  gold  in  chunks  and  he  got  none  at 

all; 
That's  prospected  a  bit  of  ground  and  sold  it  for  a  song 
To  see  it  yield  a  fortune  to  some  fool  that  came  along; 
That's  sunk  a  dozen  bed-rock  holes,  and  not  a  speck  in  sight. 
Yet  sees  them  take  a  million  from  the  claims  to  left  and 

right? 


The  Ballad  of  Hard-Luck  Henry      71 

Now  aren't  things  like  that  enough  to  drive  a  man  to  boose? 
But  Hard-Luck  Smith  was  hoodoo-proof — he  knew  the  way 
to  lose. 

'Twas  in  the  fall  of  nineteen  four — leap  year  I've  heard  them 

say — 
When  Hard-Luck  came  to  Hunker  Creek  and  took  a  hillside 

lay. 
And  lo !  as  if  to  make  amends  for  all  the  futile  past, 
Late  in  the  year  he  struck  it  rich,  the  real  pay  streak  at  last. 
The  ripples  of  his  sluicing  box  were  choked  with  speckled 

earth, 
And  night  and  day  he  worked  that  lay  for  all  that  he  was 

worth, 
And  when  in  chill  December's  gloom  his  lucky  lease  expired, 
He  found  that  he  had  made  a  stake  as  big  as  he  desired. 

One  day  while  meditating  on  the  waywardness  of  fate, 
He  felt  the  ache  of  lonely  man  to  find  a  fitting  mate; 
A  petticoated  pard  to  cheer  his  solitary  life, 
A  woman  with  soft,  soothing  ways,  a  confidant,  a  wife. 
And  while  he  cooked  his  supper  on  his  little  Yukon  stove. 
He  wished  that  he  had  staked  a  claim  in  love's  rich  treasure- 
trove  ; 
When  suddenly  he  paused  and  held  aloft  a  Yukon  egg, 
For  there  in  pencilled  letters  was  the  magic  name  of  Peg. 

You  know  those  Yukon  eggs  of  ours — some  pink,  some  green, 

some  blue — 
A  dollar  for  assorted  tints,  assorted  flavours  too. 
The  supercilious  cheechako  might  designate  them  high, 
But  one  acquires  a  taste  for  them  and  likes  them  by  and  by. 

Well,  Hard-Luck  Henry  took  this  egg  and  held  it  to  the  light. 
And  there  was  more  faint  pencilling  that  sorely  taxed  his 

sight. 
At  last  he  made  it  out  and  the  legend  ran  Hke  this — 
"  Will  Klondike  Miner  write  to  Peg,  Plumhollow,  Squashville, 

Wis.?" 

That  night  he  got  to  thinking  of  this  far-oflf,  unknown  fair; 
It  seemed  so  sort  of  opportune,  an  answer  to  his  prayer. 


72        The  Ballad  of  Hard-Luck  Henry- 
She  flitted  sweetly  through  his  dreams,  she  haunted  him  by 

day, 
She  smiled  through  clouds  of  nicotine,  she  cheered  his  weary 

way. 
At  last  he  jnelded  to  the  spell;  his  course  of  love  he  set — 
Wisconsin  his  objective  point;  his  object  Margaret. 

With  every  mile  of  sea  and  land  his  longing  grew  and  grew. 
He  practised  all  his  pretty  words,  and  these,  I  fear,  were 

few. 
At  last  one  frosty  evening,  with  a  cold  chill  down  his  spine. 
He  found  himself  before  her  house,  the  threshold  of  the 

shrine. 

His  courage  flickered  to  a  spark,  then  glowed  with  sudden 

flame — 
He  knocked;   he  heard  a  welcome  word;    she  came — his 

goddess  came. 
Oh,  she  was  fair  as  any  flower,  and  huskily  he  spoke: 
"  I'm   all   the   way  from  Klondike,  with  a  mighty  heavy 

poke. 
I'm  looking  for  a  lassie,  one  whose  Christian  name  is  Peg, 
Who  sought  a  Klondike  miner  and  wrote  it  on  an  egg." 

The  lassie  gazed  at  him  a  space,  her  cheeks  grew  rosy  red; 
She  gazed  at  him  with  tear-bright  eyes,  then  tenderly  she 

said: 
"  Yes,  lonely  Klondike  miner,  it  is  true  my  name  is  Peg, 
It  is  also  true  I  longed  for  you  and  wrote  it  on  an  egg. 
My  heart  went  out  to  some  one  in  that  land  of  night  and 

cold; 
But  oh,  I  fear  that  Yukon  egg  must  have  been  mighty  old. 
I  waited  long,  I  hoped,  I  feared;    you  should  have  come 

before; 
I've  been  a  wedded  woman  now  for  eighteen  months  or 

more. 
I'm  sorry,  since  you've  come  so  far,  you  ain't  the  one  that 

wins; 
But  won't  you  take  a  step  inside — I'll  let  you  see  the  twins" 

R.  W.  Service. 


The  Trail  of  Gold  73 


THE  TRAIL  OF  GOLD 

Under  the  ward  of  the  Polar  Sea, 

Where  the  great  Auroras  snap  and  blaze, 
There  are  crashing  blows  on  the  icy  bar 

That  is  set  at  the  end  of  the  open  ways. 
There  are  axes  ringing  across  the  crest, 

The  sluices  shackle  the  streams  that  rolled, 
As  the  gamesters  gather  from  east  and  west, 

The  men  that  follow  the  Trail  of  Gold. 

A  black  line  crawls  o'er  the  glacier's  face, 

Where  the  worn  pack-horses  scrape  and  slide; 
The  muskeg  swallows  and  leaves  no  trace, 

The  boats  go  down  on  the  snow-swelled  tides 
Blood  and  bones  on  the  snow  and  sod. 

From  the  caiions  black  to  the  barrens  gray, 
Blaze  the  trail  that  the  vanguard  trod, 

That  those  who  follow  may  find  the  way. 

There  are  strange  ships  west  of  the  lonely  isles 

Where  the  red  volcanoes  bum  and  freeze; 
There's  a  fading  wake  o'er  the  misty  miles. 

There  are  smokes  that  trouble  the  Smoky  Seas^ 
There  are  corpses  swept  from  the  sinking  hull, 

As  the  steamer  dips  to  the  swelling  gale. 
For  the  rising  shark  and  the  wheeling  gull 

That  hunt  the  sea  on  the  Golden  Trail. 

The  storm  sweeps  out  from  its  Polar  den, 

Till  the  air  grows  dense  with  the  cutting  snow; 
The  north  makes  mock  of  the  sons  of  men. 

As  the  diggers  he  in  the  drifts  below. 
The  workers  Ue  where  the  last  work  ceased. 

The  strong  men  scatter  the  lifeless  wold; 
And  the  tall  wolves  howl  at  the  gathered  feast — 

The  hounds  that  hunt  on  the  Scent  of  Gold. 

Frank  L.  Pollock. 


74       The  Deacon  and  His  Daughter 


THE  DEACON  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER 

He  saved  his  soul  an'  saved  his  pork 

With  old  time  preservation; 
He  didn't  hold  with  creosote 

Or  new  plans  of  salvation : 
He  said  that  "  works  would  show  the  man, 
The  smoke  house  tell  upon  the  ham." 

He  didn't  when  he  sunk  a  well 

Inspect  the  stuns  and  gravel 
Tew  prove  that  Moses  was  a  dunce 

Unfit  for  furin  travel; 
He  marvelled  at  them  works  uv  God — 
An'  broke  'em  up  tew  mend  the  road. 

An'  when  the  circus  cum  around, 
He  hitched  his  sleek  old  horses, 

An'  in  his  rattling  waggon  took 
His  dimpled  household  forces — 

The  boys  tew  wonder  at  the  clown 

An'  think  his  lot  life's  highest  crown. 

He  wondered  at  the  zebra  wild, 
Nor  knew  'em  painted  donkeys; 

An'  when  he  gev  the  boys  a  dime 
Fur  cakes  to  feed  the  monkeys, 

He  never  thought  in  enny  shape, 

He  hed  descended  from  an  ape. 

An'  when  he  saw  some  shallow-pate, 
With  smallest  brain  possession; 

He  uttered  no  filosophy 
On  natur's  retrogression 

Tew  ancient  types,  by  Darwin's  rule; 

He  simply  sed,  "  Wali,  dum  a  fool!  " 

He  never  had  an  enemy 

But  once  a  year,  tew  meetin' 


The  Deacon  and  His  Daughter        y ^ 

When  he  and  deacon  Maybee  fought 

On  questions  uv  free  seatin', 
Or  which  should  be  the  one  t'  rebuke 
Pastor  for  kissin'  sister  Luke. 

His  farm  was  well  enough,  but  stones 

Kind  uv  stem,  ruthless  facts  is; 
And  he  jest  made  out  tew  save  a  mite 

An'  pay  his  righteous  taxes, 
An'  mebbe  tote  sum  flour  an'  pork 
Tew  poor  old  critters  past  their  work. 

But  on  the  neatest  thing  he  had 

Around  the  place  or  dwellin' 
I  guess  he  never  paid  a  red 

Uv  taxes.    No  mush  melon 
Was  rounder,  pinker,  sweeter  than 
The  old  man's  daughter,  Minta  Ann. 

I've  been  at  Philadelfy's  show 

An'  other  similar  fusses, 
An'  seen  a  mighty  sight  uv  stone 

Minarveys  and  Venusses, 
An'  Sikeys  clad  in  flowers  an'  wings, 
But  not  much  show  of  factory  things. 

I've  seen  the  hull  entire  crowd 

Uv  Jove's  female  relations, 
An'  I  feel  tew  make  a  solemn  swar 

On  them  thar  "  Lamentations," 
That  as  a  sort  of  general  plan 
I'd  rather  spark  with  Minta  Ann. 

You'd  ought  tew  see  her  dimpled  chin, 

With  one  red  freckle  on  it. 
Her  brown  eyes  glancing  underneath 

Her  tilted  shaker  bonnet ; 
I  vow  I  often  did  desire 
They'd  set  the  plaguey  thing  a-fire. 

You'd  ought  tew  hear  that  gal  sing 
On  Sabbath,  up  tew  meetin', 


76        The  Deacon  and  His  Daughter 

You'd  kind  uv  feel  high  lifted  up, 

Yer  soul  fur  heaven  fleetin'. 
An'  then  came  supper,  down  she'd  tie 
Ye  tew  the  earth  with  pumpkin  pie ! 

I  tell  ye,  stranger,  'twas  a  sight 

Fur  poetry  and  speeches 
Tew  see  her  sitten'  on  the  stoop, 

A-peelin'  scarlet  peaches 
Inter  the  kettle  at  her  feet — 
I  tell  ye,  'twas  a  show  complete, 

Drip-droppin'  thru  the  rustlin'  vine 
The  sunbeams  came  a-fiitten', 

An'  sort  uv  danced  upon  the  floor, 
Chased  by  the  tabby  kitten ; 

Losh,  tew  see  the  critter's  big  surprise 

When  them  beams  slipped  into  Minta's  eyes. 

An'  down  her  brow  her  pretty  har 
Cum  curlin',  crinklin',  creepin' 

In  leetle  yaller  mites  uv  rings. 
Inter  them  bright  eyes  peepin', 

Es  run  the  tendrils  uv  the  vine 

Tew  whar  the  merry  sunbeams  shine. 

But  losh !  her  smile  was  drefful  shy 
An'  kept  her  white  lids  under; 

Jest  as  when  darkens  up  the  sky 
An'  growls  away  the  thunder, 

Them  sheeny  speckled  trout  will  hide 

Beneath  them  white  pond-lilies'  pride. 

An'  then  her  heart,  'twas  made  clar  thru 

Uv  Caleforny  metal. 
Chock  full  uv  things  es  sugar  sweet 

Es  a  presarvin'  kettle, 
The  beaux  went  crazed  for  nienny  a  mile 
When  I  got  the  kettle  on  the  bile. 

The  good  old  deacon's  gone  to  whar 
Thar  ain't  no  mild  contentions 


La  Blanchisseuse  ^'j 

On  Buildin'  Funds  Committees  an' 

No  taxes  or  exemptions; 
Yet  still  I  sorter  feel  he  preaches 
An'  Minta  Ann  presarves  my  peaches. 


LA  BLANCHISSEUSE 

Margaton  at  early  dawn 

Thro'  the  vineyard  takes  her  way, 
With  her  basket  filled  with  lawn 

And  with  kerchiefs  red  and  gay, 
To  the  stream  which  bubbles  past 

Grove,  chateau,  and  clanking  mill. 
As  it  runs  it  chatters  fast 
Like  a  woman  with  a  will: 

"  Blanchisseuse,  Blanchisseuse, 
Here  I  come  from  Picardyl 
Hurry  off  thy  wooden  shoes, 
I  will  wash  thy  clothes  with  thee!  " 

Margaton's  a  shapely  maid ; 

Laughter  haunts  her  large  soft  eye; 
When  she  trips  by  vineyard  shade 

Trips  the  sun  with  her,  say  I. 
Wooden  shoes  she  lays  aside. 

Puts  her  linen  in  the  rill, 
And  the  stream  in  gossip's  pride 
Chatters  to  her  with  a  will : 
"  Blanchisseuse,  Blanchisseuse, 
I — I  know  a  thing  or  two ! 
Thus  this  is  the  latest  news. 

Some  one  dreams  of  eyes  of  blue !  " 

Margaton  her  linen  wrings 
White  beneath  her  ruddy  hands; 

O'er  her  feet  the  rillet  sings 
Dimpling  all  its  golden  sands: 

Hawthorn  blushes  touch  her  hair, 
Birdlings  twitter  sweet  and  shrill. 


78  La  Blanchisseuse 

Sunbeams  seek  her  everywhere; 
Gossips  on  the  wordy  rill: 

"  Blanchisseuse,  Blanchisseuse, 

He  who  dreams  has  land  and  flocks ! 
Margaton  may  idly  choose 

Pebbles  in  the  place  of  rocks!  " 

Margaton  her  linen  treads, 

Ankle-dimple  deep  her  feet; 
Nod  the  stately  green  fern  heads, 

Nod  the  violets  damp  and  sweet; 
Dewy  places  in  the  wood 

With  the  ruddy  morning  fill; 
Silenter  the  downy  brood 
Chatters  on  the  gossip  rill: 

"  Blanchisseuse,  Blanchisseuse, 

He  who  dreams  is  rich  and  great ! 
Margaton  may  idly  choose 
Golden  sorrow  for  a  mate !  " 

Margaton  her  linen  wrings ; 

Day's  gold  goblet  overflows; 
Leaves  are  stirred  with  glancing  wings; 

One  can  smell  the  distant  rose. 
"  Silly  stream,  the  cure  said 

Just  such  warning  yesterday!  " 
Rippling  o'er  its  pebbly  bed. 

Still  the  stream  would  have  its  say: 
"  Blanchisseuse,  Blanchisseuse, 
Yet  another  tale  I  know — 
Some  one  dreams  of,  runs  my  news, 
Golden  heart  in  bosom's  snow!  " 

Margaton  her  linen  spreads. 

On  the  violet  bank  to  dry; 
Droop  the  willows  low  their  heads, 

Curious,  for  her  low  reply: 
"  Dearest  stream,  but  yesternight 

Whispered  Jean  those  words  to  me !  " 
And  the  rillet  in  its  flight 

Buzzed  and  murmured  like  a  bee: 


The  Farmer's  Daughter  Cherry       79 

"  Blanchisseuse,  Blanchisseuse, 

He  who  dreams  is  good  and  true ! 
How  can  Margaton  refuse? 
Blanchisseuse,  adieu,  adieu." 


THE  FARMER'S  DAUGHTER  CHERRY 

The  farmer  quit  what  he  was  at, 

The  bee-hive  he  was  smokin' ; 
He  tilted  back  his  old  straw  hat — 

Says  he,  "  Young  man,  you're  jokin' ! 

0  Lordy ! — Lord  forgive  the  swar — 
Ain't  ye  a  cheeky  sinner? 

Come,  if  I  give  my  girl  thar. 
Where  would  you  find  her  dinner? 

"  Now,  look  at  me,  I  settled  down 

When  I  was  one-and-twenty, 
Me,  and  my  axe,  and  Mrs.  Brown, 

And  stony  land  a  plenty. 
Look  up  thar!  ain't  that  homestead  fine? 

And  look  at  them  thar  cattle: 

1  tell  ye,  since  that  early  time 
I've  fit  a  tidy  battle. 

"  It  kinder  wrestles  down  a  man 

To  fight  the  stuns  and  mire: 
But  I  sort  of  clutch'd  to  that  thar  plan 

Of  David  and  Goliar. 
Want  was  the  mean  old  Phihstine 

That  strutted  round  the  clearin', 
Of  pebbles  I'd  a  hansum  line, 

And  flung  'em,  nothin'  fearin'. 

"  They  hit  him  square,  right  whar  they  ought; 

Them  times  I  had  an  arm ! 
I  lick'd  the  giant,  and  I  bought 

A  hundred  acre  farm. 


8o       The  Farmer's  Daughter  Cherry 

My  gal  was  bom  about  them  days — 
I  was  mowin'  in  the  medder, 

When  some  one  comes  along  and  says, 
"  The  wife's  gone  thro'  the  shadder!  " 

"  Times  thought  it  was  God's  will  she  went- 

Times  thought  she  work'd  too  slavin'; 
And  for  the  young  one  that  was  sent 

I  took  to  steady  savin'. 
Just  cast  your  eyes  on  that  thar  hill 

The  sugar  bush  just  tetches, 
And  round  by  Miller  Jackson's  Mill, 

All  round  the  farm  stretches. 

"  'Ain't  got  a  mind  to  give  that  land 

To  any  snip-snap  feller 
That  don't  know  loam  from  mud  or  sand, 

Or  if  corn's  blue  or  yaller. 
I've  got  a  mind  to  keep  her  yet; — 

Last  fall  her  cheese  and  butter 
Took  prizes;  sakes!   I  can't  forget 

Her  pretty  pride  and  flutter. 

"  Why,  you  be  off !  her  little  face 

For  me's  the  only  summer; 
Her  gone,  'twould  be  a  queer  old  place — 

The  Lord  smile  down  upon  her! 
All  goes  with  her,  the  house  and  lot — 

You'd  hke  to  get  'em,  very! 
I'll  give  'em  when  the  maple  bears 

A  bouncin'  ripe-red  cherry!  " 

The  farmer  fixed  his  hat  and  specks. 

And  pressed  his  lips  together; 
The  maple  wav'd  above  his  head. 

Each  gold  and  scarlet  feather; 
The  teacher's  honest  heart  sank  down — 

How  could  his  soul  be  merry? 
He  knew — though  teaching  in  a  town — 

No  maple  bears  a  cherry. 

Soft  blew  the  wind;  the  great  old  tree, 
Like  Saul  to  David's  singing, 


I'll  Follow  Jane  8i 

Nodded  its  jewelled  cro\vn,  as  he 
Swayed  to  the  harp-strings'  ringing; 

A  something  rosy — not  a  leaf — 
Stirs  up  among  the  branches; 

A  miracle  may  send  relief 
To  lovers  fond  and  anxious ! 

0  rosy  is  the  velvet  cheek 

Of  one  'mid  red  leaves  sitting ! 
The  sunbeams  played  at  hide-and-seek 

With  the  needles  in  her  knitting. 
"  0  Pa!  "  the  farmer  prick'd  his  ears; 

Whence  came  that  voice  so  merry? 
The  teacher's  thoughtful  visage  clears — 

"  The  maple  bears  a  cherry!  " 

The  farmer  tilted  back  his  hat; 

"  Wellj  gal — as  I'm  a  human 
I'll  always  hold  as  doctrine  that 

Thar's  nothin'  beats  a  woman ! 
When  crown'd  that  maple  is  with  snow, 

And  Christmas  bells  are  merry, 
I'll  let  you  have  her,  Jack — that's  so ! 

Be  sure  you're  good  to  Cherry!  " 

Isabella  Valancy  Crawford. 


I'LL  FOLLOW  JANE 

I  PUT  my  faith  in  Janey  Smith, 

Religion  doesn't  bother  me; 
It's  somethin'  I  don't  monkey  with; 

I  never  learned  the  trick — d'ye  see? 
They  say  I'm  on  the  road  to  hell; 

Jes  so — I  think  my  course  is  plain, 
Fer  I'm  all  right  and  doin'  well — 

I've  put  my  faith  in  little  Jane. 

Religious  folk  hev  struv  and  raved, 
An'  dun  their  best  at  "  savin'  "  me — 

What  nonsense  this  fer  I've  bin  saved; 
The  pen' tent  bench  was  Janey's  knee. 

F 


82  The  Habitant's  Jubilee  Ode 

I  promised  Jane  I  wouldn't  fight, 

Ne'r  chaw,  ne'r  swear,  ne'r  drink  again; 

My  Saviour  kem  to  me  that  night — 
A  well-worked  scheme  of  Him  and  Jane. 

I  uster  go  to  church  and  sich, 

An'  take  pertracted  meetins  in, 
They  flammixed  me,  an'  which  was  which 

I  couldn't  tell  amonxt  the  din. 
This  hell  menagerie  business  hit 

The  wrong  side  up — it  wasn't  plain; 
I  can't  surround  the  church  a  bit, 

But  I  can  understand  my  Jane. 

She  doesn't  nag  me  'bout  my  soul: 

She  doesn't  say  I'm  soaked  in  sin; 
She  sits  and  sings  Roll,  Jordan,  Roll, 

An'  I  jest  drop  a  chorus  in; 
An'  when  I  tell  her  what  they  say, 

Thet  I  am  damned  an  sway  behind, 
She  looks  up  in  her  gentle  way 

With  "  Do  what's  right  an'  never  mind." 

The  Lord's  right  hand  holds  Janey's  hand; 

An'  her  right  hand  is  holdin'  me; 
Their  love  is  my  salvation,  an' 

I'm  proud  to  say  salvation's  free; 
An'  when  I've  kep  my  word  a  year, 

An'  wore  off  all  the  old-time  stain. 
Then  I  will  read  my  title  clear 

To  heaven  on  earth — and  little  Jane. 

R.  K.  Kerningham. 


THE  HABITANT'S  JUBILEE  ODE 

I  READ  on  de  paper  mos'  ev'ry  day  all  about  Jubilee 
An'  grande  procession  movin'  along  an'  passin'  across  de  sea, 
Dats  chil'ren  of  Queen  Victoriaw  comin'  from  far  away 
For  tole  madame  wa't  dey  t'ink  of  her,  an'  wishin'  her  bonne 
sante. 


The  Habitant's  Jubilee  Ode  83 

An'  if  any  wan  want  to  know  pourquoi  les  Canayens  should 

be  dere 
Wit  'res'  of  de  worF  for  shout  "  Hooraw  "  an'  t'row  hees  cap 

on  de  air, 
Purty  quick  I  will  tole  heem  de  reason  w'y  we  feel  lak  de 

Oder  do, 
For  if  I'm  only  poor  habitant,  I  am  not  on  the  sapre  fou. 

Of  course  w'en  we  t'ink  it  de  firs'  go  off,  I  know  very  strange 

it  seem 
For  fader  of  us  dey  was  offen  die  for  flag  of  L'Ancien  Regime, 
From  day  w'en  de  voyageurs  out  all  de  way  from  ole  St. 

Malo, 
Flyin'  dat  flag  from  de  mas'  above,  a'  long  affer  dat  also. 

De  English  fight  wit'   de  Frenchmen  den  over  de  whole 

contree, 
Down  by  de  reever,  off  in  de  wood,  and  out  on  the  beeg,  beeg 

sea, 
Killin'  and  shootin',  and  raisin'  row,  half  tarn  dey  don't 

know  wa't  for, 
W'en  its  jus'  as  easy  get  settle  down,  not  makin'  de  crazy 

war, 

Sometam'  de  be  quiet  for  leetle  w'ile,  you  tink  dey  don't 

fight  no  more. 
An'  den  w'en  dey'  ere  feelin'  all  right  agen.  Bang!  jus' lak' 

she  was  before. 
Very  offen  we're  beaten  dem  on  de  fight,  sometam'  dey  can 

beat  us  too. 
But  no  feller's  scare  in  de  'noder  man,  and  bote  got  enough 

to  do. 

An'  all  de  long  year  she  be  go  lak'  dat,  we  never  was  know 

de  peace, 
Not'ing  but  war  from  de  wes'  contree  down  to  de  St.  Maurice; 
Till  de  las'  fights  comin'  on  Canadaw,  an'  brave  Generale 

Montcalm 
Die  lak'  a  sojer  of  France  is  die  on  battle  of  Abraham. 

Dat's  finish  it  all,  an'  de  English  king  is  axin'  us  stayin'  dere 
We're  we  have  sam'  right  as  de  'noder  peep  comin'  from 
Angleterre. 


84  The  Habitant's  Jubilee  Ode 

Long  tarn  for  our  moder  so  far  away  de  poor  Canayens  is 

cry, 
But  de  new  step-moder  slie's  good  an'  kin',  an'  its  all  right 

bi'  me  by. 

If  de  moder  come  dead  w'en  you're  small  gar9on,  leavin'  you 

dere  alone, 
Wit'  nobody  watchin'  for  fear  you  fall  and  hurt  yourse'f  on 

de  stone. 
An'  noder  good  woman  she  talc'  your  han'  de  sam'  your  own 

moder  do. 
Is  it  right  you  don't  call  her  moder,  is  it  right  you  don't  love 

her  too  ? 

Ba  non,  am  dat  was  de  way  we  feel  w'en  de  ole  Regime's 

no  more. 
An'  de  new  one  come,  but  don't  change  moche,  w'y  its  jus' 

lak'  it  be  before, 
Spikin'  Francais  lak'  we  always  do,  an'  de  English  dey  mak' 

no  fuss  » 

An'  our  law  de  sam',  wall,  I  don't  know  me  't'was  better 

mebbe  for  us. 

So  de  sam'  as  two  broder  we  settle  down,  leevin'  dere  han' 

in  han', 
Knowin'  each  oder,  we  lak  each  oder  de  French  an'  de 

Englishman. 
For  its  curi's  t'ing  on  dis  worl',  I'm  sure  you  see  it  agen  and 

agen, 
Dat  offen  de  mos'  worse  ennemi,  he's  comin'  de  bes',  bes' 

frien'. 

So  we're  kipin'  so  quiet  long  affer  dat,  w'en  las'  of  de  fightin's 

done, 
Dat  plaintee  is  say,  de  new  Canayens  forget  how  to  shoot  de 

gun; 
But  Yankee  man's  smart,  all  de  worl'  know  dat,  so  he's  firs' 

fin'  mistak'  won  day — 
W'en  he's  try  cross  de  line,  fusil  on  hees  han',  near  place  dey 

call  Chateaugay. 


Little  Bateese  85 

Of  course  it's  bad  t'ing  for  poor  Yankee  man,  De  Salaberry 

be  dere 
Wit'  habitant  farmer  from  down  below,  an'  two  bonder 

Voltigeurs. 
Dem  feller  come  off  de  State,  I  s'pose  was  fightin'  so  hard 

dey  can, 
But  the  blue  coat  soger  he  don't  get  kill,  is  de  locky  Yankee 

man! 

Since  den  w'en  dey'se  comin  on  Canadaw  we  always  be  treat 

dem  well. 
For  dey're  speennin'  de  monee  lak'  gentilhommes  an'  stay 

on  de  bes'  hotel. 
Den  "  Bienvenue,"  we  will  spik  dem,  an  "  Come  back  agen 

nex'  week. 
So  long  you  was  kip  on  de  quiet  an'  don't  talk  de  politique." 

Yaas,  dat  is  de  way  Victoraw  fin'  us  dis  Jubilee, 

Sometam'  we  mak'  fuss  about  not'ing,  but  it's  all  on  de 
familee. 

An'  w'enever  dere's  danger  roun'  Her,  no  matter  on  sea  or 
Ian', 

Sh'll  find  that  les  Canayens  can  fight  de  sam'  as  bes'  English- 
man. 

An'  onder  de  flag  of  Angleterre,  so  long  as  dat  flag  was  fly — 
Wit'  deir  English  broder  les  Canayens  is  satisfy  leev'  an'  die. 
Dat's  de  message  our  fader  geev  us  w'en  dey're  fallin'  on 

Chateaugay, 
An'  de  flag  was  kipin'  dem  safe  den,  dats  de  wan  we  will 

kip  alway  1 


LITTLE  BATEESE 

You  bad  little  boy,  not  moche  you  care 

How  busy  you're  kipin'  your  poor  gran'pere 

Tryin'  to  stop  you  ev'ry  day 

Chasin'  de  hen  aroun'  de  hay — 

W'y  don't  you  geev'  dem  a  chance  to  lay? 

Little  Bateese! 


86  Little  Bateese 

Off  on  de  fiel'  you  foller  de  plough 
Den  w'en  you're  tire  you  scare  de  cow 
Lickin'  de  dog  till  dey  jomp  de  wall 
So  de  milk  ain't  good  for  not'ing  at  all — 
An'  you're  only  five  an'  a  half  dis  fall, 

Leetle  Bateese! 

Too  sleepy  for  sa}an'  de  prayer  to-night? 
Never  min',  I  s'pose  w'll  be  all  right; 
Say  dem  to-morrow — ah !  dere  he  go ! 
Fas'  asleep  in  a  minute  or  so — 
An'  he'll  stay  lak  dat  till  de  rooster  crow, 

Leetle  Bateese! 

Den  wake  us  up  right  away  tout  suite 
Lookin'  for  somet'ing  more  to  eat, 
Makin'  me  t'ink  of  dem  long  leg  crane 
Soon  as  dey  swaller,  dey  start  again, 
T  wonder  your  stomach  don't  get  no  pain, 

Leetle  Bateese! 

But  see  heem  now  lyin'  dere  in  bed. 
Look  at  de  arm  ondemeat'  hees  head; 
If  he  grow  lak  dat  till  he's  twenty  year 
I'll  bet  he'll  be  stronger^an  Louis  Cyr 
An'  beat  all  de  voyageurs  leevin'  here, 

Leetle  Bateese! 

Jus'  feel  de  muscle  along  his  back, 
Won't  geev  heem  much  bodder  for  carry  pack 
On  de  long  portage,  any  size  canoe, 
Dere's  not  many  t'ing  dat  boy  wont  do. 
For  he's  got  double  joint  on  hees  body  too, 

Leetle  Bateese ! 

But  leetle  Bateese !  please  don't  forget 
We  rader  you  stayin'  de  small  boy  yet, 
So  chase  de  chicken  an'  mak'  dem  scare, 
An'  do  w'at  you  lak  wit'  your  old  gran'pere. 
For  w'en  you're  beeg  feller  he  won't  be  dere — 

Leetle  Bateese ! 


Johnnie  Corteau  87 


JOHNNIE  CORTEAU 

Johnnie  Corteau  of  de  mountain, 
Johnnie  Corteau  of  de  hill, 
Dat  was  de  boy  can  shoot  the  gun, 
Dat  was  de  boy  can  jomp  an'  run, 
An'  it's  not  very  offen  you  ketch  heem  still, 

Johnnie  Corteau ! 

Ax  dem  along  de  reever. 

Ax  dem  along  de  shore, 

Who  was  the  mos'  bes'  fightin'-man 

From  Managance  to  Shaw-in-i-gan  ? 

De  place  w'ere  de  great  beeg  rapide  roar, 

Johnnie  Corteau ! 

Sam't'ing  on  ev'ry  shaintee 

Up  on  de  Mekinac, 

Who  was  de  man  can  walk  de  log 

W'en  w'ole  of  de  river  she's  black  wit'  fog 

An'  carry  de  beeges'  load  on  hees  back? 

Johnnie  Corteau. 

On  de  rapid  you  want  to  see  heem 
If  de  raf  she's  swingin'  roun', 
An'  he's  yellin',  "  Hooraw,  Bateese,  good  man!  " 
W'y  de  oar  come  double  on  hees  han' 
W'en  he's  makin'  dat  raf  go  flyin'  down, 

Johnnie  Corteau, 

An'  Tete  de  Bouli  chief  can  tole  you 

De  feller  w'at  save  hees  life 

W'en  big  moose  ketch  heem  up  a  tree 

Who's  shootin'  dat  moose  on  de  head,  sapree! 

An'  den  run  off  wit'  hees  Injun  wife? 

Johnnie  Corteau. 

An'  he  only  have  pike  pole  wit'  heem 
On  Lac  a  la  Tortue 


88  Johnnie  Corteau 

Wen  he  meet  de  bear  comin'  down  de  hill, 
But  de  bear  very  soon  is  get  hees  fill ! 
An'  he  sole  dat  skin  for  ten  dollar  too, 

Johnnie  Corteau. 

Oh,  he  never  was  scare  for  not'ing 
Lak  de  old  coureurs  de  bois, 
But  w'en  he's  getting  hees  winter  pay 
De  bes'  t'ing  sure  is  kip  out  de  way 
For  he's  goin'  right  off  on  de  Hip  Horraw ! 

Johnnie  Corteau. 

Den  puUin'  hees  sash  aroun'  heem 

He  dance  on  hees  botte  sauvage 

An'  shout  "  all  aboar'  if  you  want  to  fight !  ' 

Wall  you  never  can  see  de  finer  sight 

W'en  he  go  lak  dat  on  de  w'ole  village  1 

Johnnie  Corteau ! 

But  Johnnie  Corteau  get  marry 
On  Philomene  Beaurepaire, 
She's  nice  leetle  girl  was  run  de  school 
On  w'at  you  call  parish  of  Sainte  Ursule 
An'  he  see  her  off  on  de  pique-nique  dere, 

Johnnie  Corteau. 

Den  somet'ing  come  over  Johnnie 
W'en  he  marry  on  Philomene, 
For  he  stay  in  de  farm  de  w'ole  year  roun', 
He  chop  de  wood  an'  he  plough  de  groun'. 
An'  he's  quieter  feller  was  never  seen, 

Johnnie  Corteau. 

An'  ev'ry  wan  feel  astonish 
From  La  Tuque  to  Shaw-in-i-gan 
W'en  dey  hear  de  news  was  goin'  around', 
Along  on  de  reever  up  an'  down, 
How  wan  leetle  woman  boss  dat  beeg  man, 

Johnnie  Corteau. 

He  never  come  out  on  de  evening 
No  matter  de  hard  we  try, 


The  Cure  of  Calumette  89 

An'  he  stay  on  de  kitchen  an'  sing  hees  song, 

"  A  la  clair  fontaine, 

M'en  allant  promener, 

J'ai  trouve  I'eau  si  belle 

Que  je  m'y  suis  baigner! 

Lui  y'a  longtemps  que  je  t'aime 

Jamais  je  ne  t'oublierai," 
Rockin'  de  cradle  de  w'ole  night  long 
Till  baby's  asleep  on  de  sweet  bimeby, 

Johnnie  Corteau. 

An'  de  house,  wall !  I  wish  you  see  it, 

De  place  she's  so  nice  an'  clean, 

Mus'  wipe  your  foot  on  de  outside  door, 

You're  dead  man  sure  if  you  spit  on  de  floor, 

An'  he  never  say  not'ing  on  Philomene, 

Johnnie  Corteau  I 

An'  Philomene  watch  de  monee 

An'  put  it  all  safe  away 

On  very  good  place;  I  dunno  w'ere, 

But  anyhow  nobody  see  it  dere, 

So  she's  buyin'  new  farm  de  noder  day, 

Madame  Corteau. 


THE  CURE  OF  CALUMETTE 

Dere's  no  voyageur  on  de  reever  never  run  hees  canoe 

d'ecorce 
T'roo  de  roar  and  de  rush  of  de  rapide,  w'ere  it  jump  lak  a 

beeg  w'ite  horse, 
Dere's  no  hunter  man  on  the  prairie,  never  wear  w'at  you  call 

raquette 
Can  beat  leetle  Fader  O'Hara  de  Cure  of  Calumette. 

Hees  fader  is  full-blooded  Irish,  and  hees  moder  is  pure 

Canayenne, 
Not  offen  dat  stock  go  togedder,  but  she's  fine  combination, 

ma  frien'; 


90  The  Cure  of  Calumette 

For  de  Irish  he's  full  of  de  devil^  an'  de  French  dey  got  savoir 

faire, 
Dat's  male'   it  de  very  good  balance  an'  talc'  you  mos' 

ev'ryw'ere. 

But  dere's  wan  t'ing  de  Cure  won't  stan'  it;  male'  fun  on  de 

Irlandais, 
An'  of  course  on  de  French  we  say  not'ing,  cos'  de  parish  she's 

all  Canayen, 
Den  you  see  on  account  of  de  moder,  he  can't  spile  hese'f  very 

moche, 
So  de  ole  joke  she's  all  out  of  fashion,  an'  wan  of  dem  t'ing 

we  don't  touch. 

Wall !  wan  of  dat  kin'  is  de  Cure,  but  w'en  he  be  comin'  our 

place 
De  peop  on  de  parish  all  w'isper,  "  How  young  he  was  look  on 

hees  face, 
Too  bad  of  de  wedder  she  keel  heem  de  firse  tam  he  got 

leetle  wet, 
An'  de  Bishop  might  sen'  beeger  Cure,  for  its  purty  tough 

place  Calumette!  " 

Ha !  ha !  how  I  wish  I  was  dere,  w'en  he  go  on  de  mission  call. 
On  de  shaintee  camp  way  up  de  reever,  drivin'  his  own  cariole, 
An'  he  meet  blaggar'  feller  been  drikin'  jus'  enough  mak  heem 

act  lak'  fou, 
Joe  Vadeboncoeur,  dey  was  call  heem,  an'  he's  purty  beeg 

feller  too ! 

Mebbe  Joe  he  don't  know  it's  de  Cure,  so  he's  hoUerin'  "  Get 

out  of  de  way. 
If  you  don't  geev  me  whole  of  de  roadside,  sapree !  you  go  ofif 

on  de  sleigh." 
But  de  Cure  he  never  say  not'ing,  jus'  poule  on  de  line  leetle 

bit. 
An'  w'en  Joe  try  for  kip  heem  hees  promise,  hees  nose  it  get 

badly  hit. 

Maudit !  he  was  strong,  leetle  Cure,  an'  he  go  for  Joseph  en 

masse. 
An  w'en  he  is  mak'  it  de  finish,  poor  Joe  isn't  feel  it  firse 

classe, 


The  Cure  of  Calumette  91 

So  nex'  tam  de  Cure  he's  going  for  visit  de  shaintee  encore 
Of  course  he  was  mak'  beeges'  mission  never  see  on  dat 
place  before. 

An'  he  know  more,  I'm  sure,  dan  de  lawyer,  and  dere's  many 

poor  habitant 
Is  glad  for  see  Fader  O'Hara,  an'  ax  w'at  he  t'ink  of  de  law 
Wen  dey  get  leetle  troub'  wit'  each  oder,  an'  don't  know 

de  bes'  t'ing  to  do, 
Dat's  makin'  dems  ave  plaintee  monee,  and  kip  de  good 

neighbour  too. 

But  w'en  we  fin'  out  how  he  paddle,  till  canoe  she  was  nearly 

fly' 

An'  travel  racquette  on  de  winter,  w'en  snow  drif  is  pilin' 

up  high, 
For  visit  some  poor  man  or  woman  dat's  waitin'  de  message 

of  peace, 
An'  get  dem  prepare  for  de  journey,  we're  proud  on  de  leetle 

pries'. 

0 !  many  dark  night  w'en  de  chil'ren  is  put  away  safe  on  de 

bed. 
An'  mese'f  an'  ma  femme  mebbe  sittin'  and  watchin'  de  small 

curly  head, 
We  hear  somet'ing  else  dan  de  roar  of  de  tonder,  de  win',  an' 

de  rain; 
So  we're  bote  passin'  out  on  de  doorway,  an'  lissen  an'  hssen 

again. 

An'  its  lonesome  for  see  de  beeg  cloud  sweepin'  across  de  sky. 
An'  lonesome  for  hear  de  win'  cryin'  lak  somebody  goin'  to 

die, 
But  de  soun'  away  down  de  valley,  creepin'  aroun'  de  hill 
All  de  tam  gettin'  closer,  closer,  dat's  de  soun'  mak'  de  heart 

Stan'  still. 

It's  de  bell  ^  of  de  leetle  Cure,  de  music  of  deat'  we  hear. 
Along  on  de  black  road  ringin',  an'  soon  it  was  comin'  near. 

'  The  Cure  of  a  French  Canadian  parish  when  summoned  to  a  death- 
bed always  carries  a  bell  in  his  buggy  or  sleigh.  It  clears  a  passage 
for  him  and  also  calls  to  prayer  those  within  reach  of  its  sound. 


92  The  Cure  of  Calumette 

Wan  minute  de  face  of  de  Cure  we  see  by  de  lantern  light, 
An'  he's  gone  from  us,  jus'  lak  a  shadder,  into  de  stormy 
night. 

An'  de  buggy  rush  down  de  hillside  an'  over  de  bridge  below, 
Were  creek  run  so  high  on  de  spring-tam,  w'en  mountain 

t'row  off  de  snow. 
An'  so  long  as  we  hear  heem  goin,  we  Icneel  on  de  floor  an' 

pray, 
Dat  God  will  look  after  de  Cur6,  an'  de  poor  soul  dat's 

passin'  away. 

I  dunno  if  he  need  our  prayer,  but  we  geev  it  heem  jus'  de 

sam', 
For  w'en  a  man's  doin'  hees  duty  lak  de  Cure  do  all  de  tam 
Never  min'  all  de  t'ing  may  happen,  no  matter  he's  riche  or 

poor, 
Le  Bon  Dieu  was  up  on  de  heaven,  will  look  out  for  dat  man 

I'm  sure. 

I'm  only  poor  habitant  farmer,  an'  mebbe  I  know  not'ing  at 

all, 
But  dere's  wan  t'ing  I'm  always  wishin',  an'  dat's  w'en  I  get 

de  call 
For  travel  de  far  away  journey,  ev'ry  wan  on  de  worl'  mus' 

He'll  be  wit"  me  de  leetle  Cure  'fore  I'm  leffin'  dis  place 
below. 

For  I  know  I'll  be  feel  more  easv,  if  he's  sittin'  dere  by  de 

bed 
An'  he'll  geev  me  de  good-bye  message,  an'  place  hees  han' 

on  my  head. 
Den  I'll  hoi'  if  he'll  only  let  me,  dat  han'  till  he  las',  las' 

breat' 
An'  bless  leetle  Fader  O'Hara,  de  Cure  of  Calumette. 


Le  Docteur  Fiset  93 


LE  DOCTEUR  FISET 

Oh  Docteur  Fiset  of  Saint  Anicet, 

Sapre  tonnerre !  he  was  leev  long  tarn ! 
I'm  sure  he's  got  ninety  year  or  so 
Beat  all  on  de  parish  'cept  Pierre  Corteau, 
An'  day  after  day  he  work  all  de  sam  1 

Dat  house  on  the  hill,  you  can  see  it  still, 
She's  sam'  place  he  buil'  de  firs'  tam'  he  came; 

Behin'  it  dere's  one  leetle  small  jardin 

Got  plaintee  de  bes'  tabac  Canayen 
Wit'  fameuse  apple  an'  beeg  blue  plum. 

An'  dey're  all  right  dere  for  de  small  boy's  scare 

No  matter  de  apple  look  nice  and  red, 
For  de  small  boy  know  if  he's  stealin'  some 
Den  Docteur  Fiset  on  dark  night  he  come, 
An'  cut  the  leetle  feller  right  off  hees  head. 

But  w'en  dey  was  rap,  an'  tak'  off  de  cap, 
M'sieu  le  Docteur  he  will  say  "  Entrez," 
Den  all  de  boy  pass  on  jardin  behin' 
Were  dey  eat  mos'  ev'ryt'ing  good  dey  fin', 
Till  dey  can't  go  on  school  nearly  two  t'ree  day. 

But  Docteur  Fiset,  not  moche  fun  he  get, 

Drivin'  all  over  de  whole  contree. 
If  de  road  she's  bad,  if  de  road  she's  good, 
W'en  ev'ryt'ing's  drown  on  de  spring-tam  flood, 

An'  workin'  for  not'ing  half  tam'  mebbe! 

Let  her  rain  or  snow,  all  he  want  to  know 

Is  jus'  if  anywan's  feeHng  sick. 
For  Docteur  Fiset's  de  ole  fashion  kin', 
Doin'  good  was  de  only  'ting  on  hees  min', 

So  he  got  no  use  for  de  politique. 

An'  he's  careful  too,  'cos  firs'  t'ing  he  do. 
For  fear  dere  was  danger  some  fever  case, 


94  Le  Doctcur  Fiset 

Is  tak'  w'en  he's  come  leetle  w'isky  chaud, 
Den  noder  wan  too  jus'  before  he  go, 
He's  so  scare  carry  fever  aroun'  de  place ! 

On  nice  summer  day  w'en  we're  makin'  hay 
Dere's  not'ing  more  pleasant  for  us  I'm  sure 

Dan  see  de  ole  man  come  joggin'  along, 

Always  singin'  some  leetle  song, 
An'  hear  heem  say,  "  Tiens,  mes  amis,  bonjour!  " 

An'  w'en  de  cole  rain  was  commence  again 

An'  we're  sittin'  at  home  on  some  warm  comerre, 
If  we  hear  the  buggy  an'  see  de  light 
Tearing  along  t'roo  the  black,  black  night, 
We  know  right  off  dat's  de  ole  docteur ! 

An'  he's  smart  horse  sure,  w'at  he  call  "  Faubourg," 
Ev'ry  place  on  de  parish  he  know  dem  all. 

An'  you  ought  to  see  the  nice  way  he  go 

For  fear  he's  upsettin'  upon  de  snow, 
W'en  ole  man's  asleep  on  de  cariole. 

I  'member  when  poor  Hormisdas  Couture 
Get  sick  on  hees  place  twenty  mile  away 
An'  hees  boy  Ovide  he  was  come  "  Raquette,'' 
W'at  you  call  "  Snowshoe,"  for  Docteur  Fiset, 
An'  docteur  he  start  wit'  hees  horse  and  sleigh. 

All  de  night  before  de  beeg  storm  she  roar, 
An'  mos'  of  de  day  it's  de  sam'  also, 

De  drif  was  filin'  up  ten  feet  high 

You  can't  see  not'ing  dis  side  de  sky, 
Not'ing  but  wan  avelanche  of  snow, 

I'm  hearing  de  bell  w'en  I  go  on  de  well 

For  water  de  cattle  on  barn  close  by. 
But  I  only  catch  sight  of  hees  cheval  blanc 
An'  hees  coonskin  coat  wit'  de  capuchon 
An'  de  storm  tak'  heem  oflf  jus'  de  sam'  he  fly. 

Mus'  be  le  Bon  Dieu  dat  is  help  him  t'roo, 
Ole  Docteur  Fiset  an'  hees  horse  "  Faubourg," 


De  Nice  Leetle  Canadienne  95 

T'was  somet'ing  for  splain  me^  wall  I  don't  care, 
But  somehow  or  'noder  he's  gettin'  dere, 
An'  save  de  life  Hormisdas  Couture. 

But  it's  sam'  alway,  lak'  dat  ev'ry  day, 
He  never  was  spare  hese'f  pour  nous  autres, 

He  don't  mak'  moche  monee,  Docteur  Fiset, 

An'  often  de  only  'ting  he  get 

Is  de  prayer  of  poor  man,  an'  wan  bag  of  oat. 

Wall !  Docteur  Fiset  of  Anicet 

He's  not  dead  yet !  An'  Fm  purty  sure, 
If  you're  passin'  dat  place  about  ten  year  more, 
You  will  see  heem  go  roun'  lak'  he  go  before 
Wit'  de  ole  cariole  an'  hees  horse  "  Faubourg!  " 


DE  NICE  LEETLE  CANADIENNE 

You  can  pass  on  de  worl'  w'ever  you  lak; 

Tak'  de  steamboat  for  go  Angleterre! 
Tak'  car  on  de  State,  an'  den  you  come  back; 

An'  go  all  de  place,  I  don't  care — 
Ma  frien',  dat's  a  fack,  I  know  you  will  say, 

W'en  you  come  on  dis  contree  again, 
Dere's  no  girl  can  touch,  w'at  we  see  every  day, 
De  nice  leetle  Canadienne. 

Don't  matter  how  poor  dat  girl  she  may  be, 

Her  dress  is  so  neat  an'  so  clean, 
Mos'  ev'ry  wan  t'ink  it  was  mak'  on  Paree, 

An'  she  wear  it,  wall !  jus'  lak  de  queen. 
Den  come  for  fin'  out  she  is  mak'  it  herse'f, 

For  she  ain't  got  moche  monee  for  spen', 
But  all  de  sam'  tam,  she  was  never  get  lef, 
Dat  nice  leetle  Canadienne. 

W'en  "  un  vrai  Canayen  "  is  mak'  it  mariee. 

You  t'ink  he  go  leev  on  beeg  fiat, 
An'  bodder  hese'f  all  de  tam  night  and  day 

Wit'  housemaid,  and  cook,  an'  all  dat  ? 


96  On  the  Trail 

Not  moche,  ma  dear  frien',  he  tak'  de  maison, 

Cos'  only  nine  dollar  or  ten, 
Were  he  leev  lak'  blood  rooster,  an'  save  de  I'argent, 
Wit'  hees  nice  leetle  Canadienne. 

I  marry  ma  femme  w'en  I  jus'  twenty  year, 

An'  now  we  got  fine  familee, 
Dat  skip  roun'  de  place  lak'  leetle  small  deer, 

No  smarter  crowd  you  never  see — 
An'  I  t'ink  as  I  watch  dem  all  chasin'  about, 

Four  boy  an'  six  girl,  she  mak'  ten, 
Dat's  help  mebbe  kip  it,  de  stock  from  run  out 
Of  de  nice  leetle  Canadienne. 

0  she's  quick,  an'  she's  smart,  an'  got  plaintee  heart, 

If  you  know  correc'  way  go  about. 
An'  if  you  don't  know,  she  soon  tole  you  so 

Den  tak'  de  firs'  chance  an'  get  out; 
But  if  she  love  you,  I  spik  it  for  true, 
She  will  mak'  it  more  beautiful  den. 
An'  sun  on  de  sky  can't  shine  lak'  de  eye 
Of  dat  nice  leetle  Canadienne. 

William  Henry  Drummond. 


ON  THE  TRAIL 

Oh,  there's  nothing  like  the  prairie 
When  the  wind  is  in  your  face, 

And  a  thunderstorm  is  brewing, 
And  night  comes  down  apace — 

'Tis  then  you  feel  the  wonder 
And  immensity  of  space ! 

Far  in  the  gathering  darkness 

Against  the  dying  day 
The  ghostly  hills  are  lying. 

The  hills  that  stand  for  aye — 
How  in  the  dusk  they  glimmer 

And  palpitate  away  1 


On  the  Trail  97 

Behind  them  still  there  lingers 

A  hint  of  sunset  gold; 
The  trail  before  you  stretches, 

A  long  black  ribbon  unrolled — 
Long  and  black  and  narrow, 

Where  the  buffalo  trod  of  old. 

Though  motionless  forever, 

The  prairies  seem  to  keep 
The  rolling  swell  and  billow 

Of  some  undulating  deep, 
As  to  the  edge  of  heaven 

And  still  beyond  they  sweep. 

Between  your  knees  the  bronco 

Goes  hotly  o'er  the  plain. 
With  rhythmic  swing  and  measure 

You  feel  him  give  and  strain. 
And  on  your  cheek  come  stinging 

The  first  wild  drops  of  rain. 

How  vast  the  wild  and  void ! 

No  living  thing  in  sight, 
As  to  the  lonely  prairie 

Comes  down  the  lonely  night. 
But  in  your  heart  what  freedom — 

What  sense  of  buoyant  flight ! 

Once  more  the  pulses  quicken 

With  life's  exultant  pride. 
With  hope  and  high  ambition. 

As  on  and  on  you  ride. 
Till  all  the  old  desires 

Come  galloping  beside  1 

Oh,  there's  nothing  like  the  prairie 

When  the  wind  is  in  your  face, 
And  the  boom  of  distant  thunder 

Comes  rolling  up  apace — 
'Tis  then  you  feel  the  wonder 

And  immensity  of  space ! 


98  On  the  Creek 


FOREST  TRAGEDY 

Afloat  upon  the  tide  one  summer  night, 
Dreamily  watching  how  the  moonbeams  bright 
Made  Httle  broken  rings  of  fancy  Hght, 

And  vaguely  lost  in  that  half-conscious  mood 
That  steals  upon  the  sense  in  solitude, 
I  drifted  near  a  shadowy  island  wood 

Where  all  was  silent,  scarce  a  leaf  was  stirred 
So  still  the  air — when  suddenly  I  heard 
The  piercing,  anguished  cry  as  of  a  bird 

In  such  distress  it  made  the  echoes  ring 
And  set  the  startled  silence  quivering — 
The  wild  appeal  of  some  sweet  feathered  thing 

In  its  extremity.    And  then  a  sound, 

Half  muffled,  faint,  and  all  again  was  drowned 

In  silence  inarticulate,  profound. 

I  went  my  way,  but  through  that  helpless  cry, 
Unanswered  and  unheeded  from  on  high, 
Rang  Fate  to  me  with  pitiless  reply, 

And  in  my  restless  heart  the  old  deep  strain — 
The  bitter  doubt  and  wild  rebellious  pain 
I  thought  were  laid— came  surging  up  again. 

Helen  Coleman. 


ON  THE  CREEK 

Dear  Heart,  the  noisy  strife 
And  bitter  carpings  cease; 

Here  is  the  lap  of  life. 
Here  are  the  lips  of  peace. 


On  the  Creek  99 

Afar  from  the  stir  of  streets, 

The  city's  dust  and  din, 
What  heahng  silence  meets 

And  greets  us  ghding  in! 

Our  Hght  birch  silent  floats; 

Soundless  the  paddle  dips; 
Yon  sunbeam  thick  with  motes 

A-thro'  the  leafage  slips. 

To  light  the  iris  wings 

Of  dragon-flies  alit 
On  lily  leaves,  and  things 

Of  gauze  that  float  and  flit. 

Above  the  water's  brink 

Hush'd  winds  make  summer  riot; 
Our  thirsty  spirits  drink 

Deep,  deep,  this  summer  quiet. 

We  slip  the  world's  gray  husk, 
Emerge,  and  spread  new  plumes 

In  sunbeam-fretted  dusk. 
Thro'  populous  golden  glooms. 

Like  thistledown  we  slide. 

Two  disembodied  dreams 
With  spirits,  alert,  wide-eyed, 

Explore  the  perfume-streams. 

For  scents  of  various  grass 

Stream  down  the  veering  breeze; 

Warm  puffs  of  honey  pass 
From  flowering  linden  trees; 

And  fragrant  gusts  of  gum 

From  clammy  balm-tree  buds, 
With  fern-brake  odours,  come 

From  intricate  solitudes. 

The  elm-trees  are  astir 

With  flirt  of  idle  wings; 
Hark  to  the  grackle's  chirr 

Whene'er  the  elm-bough  swings. 


loo  The  Forest  Fire 

From  off  yon  ash-limb  sere, 

Out  thrust  amid  green  branches, 

Keen  Hke  an  azure  spear 
A  kingfisher  down  launches. 

Far  up  the  creek  his  calls 
And  lessening  laugh  retreat; 

Again  the  silence  falls, 
And  soft  the  green  hours  fleet. 

They  fleet  with  drowsy  hum 
Of  insects  on  the  wing — 

We  sigh — the  end  must  come! 
We  taste  our  pleasure's  sting. 

No  more  then  need  we  try 
The  rapture  to  regain; 

We  feel  our  day  shp  by, 
And  cling  to  it  in  vain. 

But,  Dear,  keep  thou  in  mind 
These  moments  swift  and  sweet! 

Their  memory  shalt  thou  find 
Illumes  the  common  street. 

And  thro'  the  dust  and  din, 
Smiling  thy  heart  shall  hear 

Quiet  waters  lapsing  thin, 
And  locusts  shrilling  clear. 


THE  FOREST  FIRE 

The  night  was  grim  and  still  with  dread. 
No  star  shone  down  from  heaven's  dome; 

The  ancient  forest  closed  around 
The  settler's  lonely  home. 

There  came  a  glare  that  lit  the  north ; 
There  came  a  sound  that  roused  the  night; 


The  Forest  Fire  loi 

But  child  and  father  slumbered  on/ 
Nor  felt  the  growing  light. 

There  came  a  noise  of  flying  feet, 

With  many  a  strange  and  dreadful  cry; 

And  sharp  flames  crept  and  leapt  along 
The  red  verge  of  the  sky. 

There  came  a  deep  and  gathering  roar, 

The  father  raised  his  anxious  head ; 
He  saw  the  light  like  a  dawn  of  blood 

That  streamed  across  his  bed. 

It  lit  the  old  clock  on  the  wall, 

It  lit  the  room  with  splendour  wild, 
It  lit  the  fair  and  tumbled  hair 

Of  the  still  sleeping  child* 

And  zig-zag  fence,  and  mde  log  bam, 
And  chip-strewn  yard,  and  cabin  gray, 

Glowed  crimson  in  the  reddening  glare 
Of  that  untimely  day. 

The  boy  was  hurried  from  his  sleep; 

The  horse  was  hurried  from  his  stall; 
Up  from  the  pasture  clearing  came 

The  cattle's  frightened  call. 

The  boy  was  snatched  to  the  saddle  bow. 

Wildly,  wildly,  the  father  rode. 
Behind  them  swooped  the  hordes  of  flame 

And  harried  their  abode. 

The  scorching  heat  was  at  their  heels ; 

The  huge  roar  hounded  them  on  their  flight; 
Red  smoke  and  many  a  flying  brand 

Flew  o'er  them  through  the  night. 

And  past  them  fled  the  wild-wood  forms — 
Far-striding  moose,  and  leaping  deer. 

And  bounding  panther,  and  coursing  wolf. 
Terrible  eyed  with  fear. 


102  The  Rapid 

And  closer  drew  the  fiery  death ; 

Madly,  madly,  the  father  rode; 
The  horse  began  to  heave  and  fall 

Beneath  the  double  load. 

The  father's  mouth  was  white  and  stern, 
But  his  eyes  grew  tender  with  long  farewell. 

He  said:  "  Hold  fast  to  your  seat,  sweetheart, 
And  ride  old  Jerry  well!  " 

"  I  must  go  back.     Ride  on  to  the  river, 
Over  the  ford  and  the  long  marsh  ride, 

Straight  on  to  the  town,  and  I'll  meet  you,  sweetheart, 
Somewhere  on  the  other  side." 

He  slipped  from  the  saddle,  the  boy  rode  on. 
His  hand  clung  fast  in  the  horse's  mane ; 

His  hair  blew  over  the  horse's  neck; 
His  small  throat  sobbed  with  pain, 

"  Father!  Father!  "  he  cried  aloud, 
The  howl  of  the  fire-wind  answered  him 

With  the  hiss  of  roaring  flames,  and  crack 
Of  shattering  limb  on  hmb. 

But  still  the  good  horse  galloped  on. 
With  sinew  braced  and  strength  renewed. 

The  boy  came  safe  to  the  river  ford. 
And  out  of  the  deadly  wood. 

And  now  with  his  kinsfolk,  fenced  from  fear. 
At  play  in  the  heart  of  the  city's  hum. 

He  stops  in  liis  play  to  wonder  why 
His  father  does  not  come ! 

C,  G.  D.  Roberts. 


THE  RAPID 

All  peacefailiy  gliding. 

The  waters  dividing, 

The  indolent  bateau  moved  slowly  along, 

The  rowers  light  hearted. 


In  the  Shadows  103 

From  sorrow  long  parted^ 

Beguiled  the  dull  moments  with  laughter  and  song; 

"  Hurrah  for  the  Rapid !  that  merrily,  merrily, 

Gambols  and  leaps  on  its  tortuous  way; 

Soon  we  will  enter  it,  cheerily,  cheerily, 

Pleased  with  its  freshness  and  wet  with  its  spray." 

More  swiftly  careering, 

The  wild  rapid  nearing. 

They  dash  down  the  stream  like  a  terrified  steed; 

The  surges  delight  them. 

No  terrors  af right  them. 

Their  voices  keep  pace  with  the  quickening  speed ; 

"  Hurrah  for  the  Rapid!  that  merrily,  merrily. 

Shivers  its  waves  against  us  in  play; 

Now  we  have  entered  it,  cheerily,  cheerily. 

Our  spirits  are  light  as  its  feathery  spray." 

Fast  downward  they're  dashing. 

Each  fearless  eye  flashing, 

Though  danger  awaits  them  on  every  side; 

Yon  rock — see  it  frowning ! 

They  strike — they  are  drowning ! 

But  downward  they  speed  with  the  merciless  tide; 

No  voice  cheers  the  rapid,  that  angrily,  angrily. 

Shivers  their  bark  in  its  maddening  play; 

Gaily  they  entered  it — heedlessly,  recklessly, 

Mingling  their  lives  with  its  treacherous  spray ! 

Charles  Sangster. 


IN  THE  SHADOWS 

I  AM  sailing  to  the  leeward, 
Where  the  current  runs  to  seaward 

Soft  and  slow. 
Where  the  sleeping  river  grasses 
Brush  my  paddle,  as  it  passes 

To  and  fro. 


I04  In  the  Shadows 

On  the  shore  the  heat  is  shaking, 
All  the  golden  sands  awaking 

In  the  cove; 
And  the  quaint  sandpiper  winging 
O'er  the  shallows,  ceases  singing 

When  I  move. 


On  the  water's  idle  pillow 
Sleeps  the  overhanging  willow, 

Green  and  cool; 
Where  the  rushes  lift  their  burnished 
Oval  heads  from  out  the  tarnished 

Emerald  pool. 

Where  the  very  water  slumbers, 
Water  lilies  grow  in  numbers, 

Pure  and  pale; 
All  the  morning  they  have  rested, 
Amber  crowned  and  pearly  crested — 

Fair  and  frail. 

Here  impossible  romances, 
Undefinable  sweet  fancies. 

Cluster  round; 
But  they  do  not  mar  the  sweetness 
Of  this  still  September  fleetness 

With  a  sound. 

I  can  scarce  discern  the  meeting 
Of  the  shore  and  stream  retreating. 

So  remote; 
For  the  laggard  river,  dozing, 
Only  wakes  from  its  reposing 

Where  I  float. 

Where  the  river  mists  are  rising, 
All  the  foliage  baptising 

With  their  spray; 
Then  the  sun  gleams  far  and  faintly. 
With  a  shadow  soft  and  saintly 

In  its  ray. 


The  Beech-Nut  Gatherer  105 

And  the  perfume  of  some  burning 
Far-off  brushwood,  ever  turning 

To  exhale; 
All  its  smoky  fragrance  dying, 
In  the  arms  of  evening  lying, 

Where  I  sail. 

My  canoe  is  growing  lazy. 
In  the  atmosphere  so  hazy. 

While  I  dream ; 
Half  in  slumber  I  am  guiding 
Eastward,  indistinctly  gliding 

Down  the  stream. 

E.  Pauline  Johnson. 


THE  BEECH-NUT  GATHERER 

All  over  the  earth  like  a  mantle, 

Golden,  and  green,  and  grey. 
Crimson,  and  scarlet,  and  yellow. 

The  autumn  foliage  lay; 
The  sun  of  the  Indian  summer 

Laughed  at  the  bare  old  trees. 
As  they  shook  their  leafless  branches 

In  the  soft  October  breeze. 

Gorgeous  was  every  hill-side, 

And  gorgeous  every  nook. 
And  the  dry  old  log  was  gorgeous, 

Spanning  the  little  brook; 
Its  holiday  robes  the  forest 

Had  suddenly  cast  to  earth. 
And,  as  yet,  seemed  scarce  to  miss  them, 

In  its  plenitude  of  mirth. 

I  walked  where  the  leaves  the  softest, 
The  brightest  and  goldenest  lay; 

And  I  thought  of  a  forest  hillside, 
And  an  Indian  day, 


io6  The  Beech-Nut  Gatherer 

Of  an  eager  little  child  face 
O'er  the  fallen  leaves  that  bent, 

As  she  gathered  her  cup  of  beech-nuts 
With  innocent  content. 

I  thought  of  the  small,  brown  fingers 

Gleaning  them  one  by  one, 
With  the  partridge  drumming  near  her 

In  the  forest  bare  and  dun, 
And  the  jet-black  squirrel,  winking 

His  saucy,  jealous  eye 
At  those  tiny  pilfering  fingers, 

From  his  sly  nook  on  high. 

Ah,  barefooted  little  maiden ! 

With  thy  bonnetless,  sunburnt  brow, 
Thou  gleanest  no  more  on  the  hillside — 

Where  art  thou  gleaning  now  } 
I  knew  by  the  lifted  glances 

Of  thy  dark,  imperious  eye, 
That  the  tall  trees  bending  o'er  thee 

Would  not  shelter  thee  by  and  by. 

The  cottage  by  the  brookside 

With  its  mossy  roof  is  gone; 
The  cattle  have  left  the  uplands. 

The  young  lambs  left  the  lawn ; 
Gone  are  thy  blue-eyed  sister. 

And  thy  brother's  laughing  brow; 
And  the  beech-nuts  lie  ungathered 

On  the  lonely  hillside  now. 

What  have  the  returning  seasons 

Brought  to  thy  heart  since  then, 
In  thy  long  and  weary  wanderings 

In  the  paths  of  busy  men  ? 
Has  the  angel  of  grief  or  gladness 

Set  his  seal  upon  thy  brow  ? 
Maiden,  joyous  or  tearful, 

Where  art  thou  gleaning  now? 

Mrs.  Yule. 


The  Canadian  Herd-Boy  107 


THE  FISHERMAN'S  LIGHT 

The  air  is  still — the  night  is  dark — 
No  ripple  breaks  the  dusky  tide, 
From  isle  to  isle  the  fisher's  bark, 
Like  fairy  meteor,  seems  to  glide — 
Now  lost  in  shade — now  flashing  bright 
On  sleeping  wave  and  forest  tree, 
We  hail  with  joy  the  ruddy  light, 
Which  far  into  the  darksome  night 
Shines  redly,  cheerily. 

With  spear  high  poised  and  steady  hand, 
The  centre  of  that  fiery  ray, 
Behold  the  skilful  fisher  stand. 
Prepared  to  strike  the  finny  prey — 
"  Now,  now !  "   the  shaft  has  sped  below — 
Transfixed  the  shining  prize  we  see, 
On  swiftly  glides  the  birch  canoe — 
The  woods  send  back  the  long  halloo 
In  echoes  loud  and  cheerily ! 

Around  yon  bluff  whose  pine-crest  hides 
The  noisy  rapids  from  our  sight. 
Another  bark — another  glides — 
Red  spirits  of  the  murky  night. 
The  bosom  of  the  silent  stream 
With  mimic  stars  is  dotted  free, 
The  tall  woods  lighten  in  the  beam, 
Through  darkness  shining  cheerily. 

Mrs.  Moodie. 


THE  CANADIAN  HERD-BOY 

(A  Song  of  the  Backwoods) 

Through  the  deep  woods,  at  peep  of  day. 
The  careless  herd-boy  wends  his  way. 
By  piny  ridge  and  forest  stream, 
To  summon  home  his  noisy  team — 
Cobos !   Cobos !   from  distant  dell 
Sly  echo  wafts  the  cattle  bell. 


io8  The  Fishers 

A  blythe  reply  he  whistles  back, 
And  follows  out  the  devious  track, 
O'er  fallen  tree  and  mossy  stone, 
A  path  to  all  save  him  unknown — 
Cobos !  Cobos !  far  down  the  dell. 
There  faintly  falls  the  cattle  bell. 

See  the  dark  swamp  before  him  throws 
A  tangled  maze  of  cedar  boughs, 
On  all  around  deep  silence  broods, 
In  nature's  boundless  soHtudes — 
Cobos  1  Cobos !   the  breezes  swell, 
And  nearer  floats  the  cattle  bell. 

He  sees  them  now — beneath  yon  trees 
His  motley  herd  recline  at  ease; 
With  lazy  pace  and  sullen  stare 
They  slowly  leave  their  shady  lair — 
Cobos !  Cobos !  far  up  the  dell, 
Quick  jingling  comes  the  cattle  bell. 

Mrs.  Moodie. 


THE  FISHERS 

Where  the  fishers  rocking,  resting. 
Or  anon  the  billows  breasting. 

Feel  the  pathos  of  the  ocean 

Where  they  toss  with  constant  motion, 
Drifting  on  the  sea; 

All  its  subtle  odours  breathing, 
When  its  surges  foaming,  seething. 
Blending  with  the  moving  cloud-rifts. 
Woo  the  soft  winds  and  the  star-drifts 
O'er  the  mighty  sea; 

Whether  going  forth  or  homing, 
In  the  midnight  or  the  gloaming, 
They  are  drawing  in  the  gladness 
Of  the  sunshine,  or  the  sadness 

Of  the  boundless  sea. 


The  Fishers  109 

One  they  are  with  all  surrounding, 

With  the  angry  surf,  resounding, 
From  the  far-off  coast  and  shallows. 
One  with  all  that  makes  and  hallows 
Memories  of  the  sea. 

Lonely  dwellers  on  the  ocean, 
Evermore  your  brave  devotion 

Lives  in  all  your  sons,  abiding. 

Leavening  their  souls,  and  guiding 
O'er  life's  fitful  sea. 

All  the  ocean's  moods  and  tenses. 
Whispers,  whimsies,  subtle  senses. 

All  its  deafening  boom  and  thunder, 

All  the  terror  gloom  and  wonder 
Of  the  stormful  sea; 

All  the  restless  moaning,  shifting, 
Mists  and  shadows,  cloud-forms  drifting. 

Heaving  waters,  vast  unbounded. 

Deep,  mysterious,  unsounded. 

Of  the  changeful  sea, 

Builded  into  soul  and  sinew 

Of  the  fisher,  draw  and  win  you. 
By  the  pleasure  and  the  power, 
Bom  of  changeful  wind  and  shower 
Of  the  wind-swept  sea. 

In  our  nation's  many  races. 
May  we  never  miss  the  traces 

Of  the  sweep  and  width  and  wonder, 
Of  the  calm  and  storm  and  thunder. 
Of  the  open  sea. 

Dr.  Albert  D.  Watson. 


I  lo  Midday  in  Midsummer 


AT  A  TOBOGGAN  MEET 

Light,  graceful  clouds  across  the  sky 

Are  scudding  swift  to-night, 
But  fleeter  than  yon  gauze  on  high 
Can  flaunt  before  the  moon's  full  eye 

Our  craft  career  their  flight. 

Bold  privateers,  they  hurry  o'er 

A  foamy  stretch  of  sea, 
With  cargoes  laden  precious  more 
Than  fabled  store  on  ocean-floor; 

Or  wealth  of  Araby. 

Out  in  the  frosty  atmosphere 

From  their  gay  decks  are  flung 
The  hearty  laugh,  the  ringing  cheer, 
The  mirthful  notes  full  sweet  and  clear 

That  fall  from  Beauty's  tongue. 

Adown  the  long  incline  they  glide. 

And  over  fields  below. 
Trim  vessels  with  the  wind  allied. 
The  playthings  of  our  northern  pride, 

Toboggans  o'er  the  snow. 

William  T.  Allison. 


MIDDAY  IN  MIDSUMMER 

The  sky's  great  curtains  downward  steal, 

The  earth's  fair  company 
Of  trees  and  streams  and  meadows  feel 

A  sense  of  privacy. 

Upon  the  vast  expanse  of  heat 

Light-footed  breezes  pace; 
In  waves  of  gold  they  tread  the  wheat. 

They  lift  the  sunflower's  face. 


A  Canadian  Summer  Evening       i  i  i 

The  cruel  sun  is  blotted  out, 

The  west  is  black  with  rain, 
The  drooping  leaves  in  mingled  doubt 

And  hope  look  up  again. 

The  weeds  and  grass  on  tiptoe  stand, 

A  strange  exuberant  thrill 
Prepares  the  dazed,  uncertain  land 

For  the  wild  tempest's  will. 

The  wind  grows  big  and  breathes  aloud 

As  it  runs  hurrying  past; 
At  one  sharp  blow  the  thunder-cloud 

Lets  loose  the  furious  blast. 

The  earth  is  beaten,  drenched,  and  drowned, 

The  elements  go  mad; 
Swift  streams  of  joy  flow  o'er  the  ground, 

And  all  the  leaves  are  glad. 

Then  comes  a  momentary  lull; 

The  darkest  clouds  are  furled, 
And,  lo,  new  washed  and  beautiful 

And  breathless  gleams  the  world ! 

Ethel WYN  Wether ald. 


A  CANADIAN  SUMMER  EVENING 

The  rose-tints  have  faded  from  out  of  the  west. 

From  the  mountain's  high  peak,  from  the  river's  broad  breast. 

And  silently  shadowing  valley  and  rill 

The  twilight  steals  noiselessly  over  the  hill. 

Behold  in  the  blue  depths  of  ether  afar, 

Now  softly  emerging  each  glittering  star; 

While  later  the  moon,  placid,  solemn,  and  bright, 

Floods  earth  with  her  tremulous  silvery  light. 

Hush !  list  to  the  whip-poor-will's  soft  plaintive  notes, 
As  up  from  the  valley  the  lonely  sound  floats ; 
Inhale  the  sweet  breath  of  yon  shadowy  wood. 
And  the  wild  flowers  blooming  in  hushed  solitude. 


112  My  Summer  Fallow 

Start  not  at  the  whispering,  'tis  but  the  breeze, 
Low  restling  'mid  maple  and  lonely  pine  trees, 
Or  willows  and  alders  that  fringe  the  dark  tide, 
Where  canoes  of  the  red  men  oft  silently  glide. 

See,  rising  from  out  of  that  copse,  dark  and  damp, 
The  fire-flies,  each  bearing  a  flickering  lamp ! 
Like  meteors  gleaming  and  streaming  they  pass 
O'er  hillside,  and  meadow,  and  dew-laden  grass; 
Contrasting  with  ripple  on  river  and  stream. 
Alternately  playing  in  shadow  and  beam, 
Till  fullness  of  beauty  fills  hearing  and  sight 
Throughout  the  still  hours  of  a  calm  summer  night. 

Mrs.  Leprohon. 


MY  SUMMER  FALLOW 

For  years  my  summer  fallow  lay 

A  wealthy  waste  of  grass  and  hay — 

A  wilder  place  you  scarce  could  match — 

The  maiden's  famous  berry-patch. 

I've  counted,  when  the  skies  were  fair, 

Twenty-and-six  bonnets  there. 

And  saw  them  all  in  terror  break 

Before  a  modest  garter-snake ! 

I  ever  felt  a  joy  intense 

To  help  each  fair  one  o'er  the  fence, 

And  praise  her  ankles  or  her  face. 

And  get  her  thanks  with  artless  grace. 

Many  a  ground-hog  I  have  dug 

From  out  his  habitation  snug; 

And  when  high  hung  the  noiseless  moon 

I've  laid  in  wait  to  meet  the  coon. 

One  spot  I  noticed  as  the  best: 

'Twas  always  greener  than  the  rest : 

A  deeper,  richer,  sweeter  green 

Than  elsewhere  on  the  field  was  seen. 

On  high  the  goose-grass  waved  her  plumes; 

The  sweet  white  clover  spread  her  blooms; 


My  Summer  Fallow  1 1  3 

The  red-top  grew  so  thick  and  rank 
That  on  its  knees  it  swooned  and  sank ! 
That  spot  had  always  furnished,  free, 
The  village  dames  with  boneset  tea: 
There  'neath  the  sheltering  mandrake's  lid, 
The  fledgling  Bob  Whites  softly  hid; 
And  none  but  I  the  secret  knew 
Of  where  the  precious  ginsing  grew. 

One  autumn,  when  the  woods  were  brown, 
I  ploughed  the  old-time  fallow  down. 
And  worked  away  with  tireless  feet. 
Until  'twas  seeded  down  with  wheat. 

Next  summer — it  was  plain  to  view — 

Thereon  the  harvest  richer  grew; 

To  keep  its  feet  it  did  its  best — 

Then  lodged — prone  lay  its  golden  crest; 

A  tangled  moist  luxuriant  square — 

The  ground-hogs  all  foregathered  there — 

And — one  famous,  wise,  and  skilled 

Will  understand — it  never  "  filled." 

Ere  winter  winds  began  to  blow 

I  took  my  spade  and  dug  below, 

And  found  some  curious  carven  stones; 

Some  broken  skulls  and  scattered  bones; 

A  precious  string  of  wampum  beads ; 

A  little  pot  of  roasted  seeds : 

Some  needles  made  of  polished  bone ; 

Some  broken  pipes — an  axe  of  stone — 

For  I  had  found  the  quiet  graves 

Of  long  forgotten  Indian  braves ! 

0 !  splendid  Resurrection,  here ! 
Renewed  with  each  returning  year ! 
To  rise  in  grass  and  flowers  and  trees ; 
To  feed  the  wild  deer  and  the  bees ; 
To  fill  with  wealth  their  sheltering  sod — 
A  yearly  sacrifice  to  God ! 

May  I  return  to  thee,  0  Earth — 
The  mother  dear  that  gave  me  birth — 

H 


114     Canadian  Woods  in  Early  Autumn 

And  pay  to  thee,  whene'er  I  go, 
A  little  of  the  debt  I  owe. 
Thus,  resurrected  every  spring 
I'll  hear  the  merry  blue  birds  sing — 
Their  voices  every  May-day  morn 
Will  sweeter  sound  than  Gabriel's  horn ! 
And  oft,  I  hope,  my  grateful  soul 
Shall  thro'  my  summer  fallow  stroll ! 

R.  K.  Kerningham. 


CANADIAN  WOODS  IN  EARLY  AUTUMN 

I  HAVE  passed  the  day  'mid  the  forest  gay, 

In  its  gorgeous  autumn  dyes, 
Its  tints  as  bright  and  as  fair  to  the  sight 

As  the  hues  of  our  sunset  skies; 
And  the  sun's  glad  rays,  veiled  by  golden  haze. 

Streamed  down  'neath  its  arches  grand. 
And  with  magic  power  made  scene  and  hour 

Like  a  dream  of  Fairie  Land. 

The  emerald  sheen  of  the  maple  green 

Is  turned  to  deep,  rich  red, 
As  the  boughs  entwine  with  the  crimson  vine 

That  is  climbing  overhead ; 
While,  like  golden  sheaves,  the  saffron  leaves 

Of  the  sycamore  strew  the  ground, 
'Neath  birches  old,  clad  in  shimmering  gold. 

Or  the  ash  with  red  berries  crowned. 

Stately  and  tall,  o'er  its  sisters  all. 

Stands  the  poplar,  proud  and  lone, 
Every  silver  leaf  in  restless  grief 

Laments  for  the  summer  flown ; 
While  each  oak  and  elm  of  the  sylvan  realm. 

In  brilliant  garb  arrayed. 
With  each  other  vie,  'neath  the  autumn  sky, 

In  beauty  of  form  and  shade. 

When  wearied  the  gaze  with  the  vivid  blaze 
Of  rich  tints  before  it  spread — 


Harvest  Time  1 1  5 

Gay  orange  and  gold,  with  shades  untold 

Of  glowing  carmine  and  red — 
It  can  turn  'mid  the  scene  to  the  sombre  green 

Of  the  fir,  the  hemlock,  the  pine. 
Ever  keeping  their  hue,  and  their  freshness  too, 

Mid  the  season's  swift  decline. 

Though  the  bird's  sweet  song,  that  the  summer  long 

Hath  flowed  so  sweet  and  clear. 
Through  the  cool,  dim  shades  of  the  forest  glades. 

No  longer  charms  the  ear, 
A  witching  spell,  that  will  please  as  well 

As  his  glad  notes,  may  be  found 
In  the  solemn  hush,  or  the  leaves'  soft  rush, 

As  they  thickly  strew  the  ground. 

For,  though  they  tell  of  summer's  farewell, 

Of  their  own  decay  and  doom. 
Of  the  wild  storm-cloud  and  snow's  cold  shroud. 

And  the  days  of  winter's  gloom. 
The  heart  must  yield  to  the  power  they  wield — 

Alike  tender,  soothing,  gay — 
The  beauties  that  gleam  and  reign  supreme 

In  our  woods,  this  autumn  day. 

Mrs.  Leprohon. 


HARVEST  TIME 

Pillowed  and  hushed  on  the  silent  plain, 
Wrapped  in  her  mantle  of  golden  grain, 

Wearied  of  pleasuring  weeks  away, 
Summer  is  lying  asleep  to-day — 

Where  winds  come  sweet  from  the  wild-rose  briars, 
And  the  smoke  of  the  far-off  prairie  fires. 

Yellow  her  brow  as  the  golden  rod, 
And  brown  her  cheeks  as  the  prairie  sod; 


1 1 6  Song  of  the  Golden  Sea 

Purple  her  eyes  as  the  mists  that  dream 

At  the  edge  of  some  laggard  sun-drowned  stream; 

But  over  their  depths  the  lashes  sweep, 
For  summer  is  lying  to-day  asleep. 

The  north  wind  kisses  her  rosy  mouth, 
His  rival  frowns  in  the  far-oflf  south, 

And  comes  caressing  her  sun-burnt  cheek, 
And  summer  awakes  for  one  short  week — 

Awakes  and  gathers  her  wealth  of  grain 
Then  sleeps  and  dreams  for  a  year  again. 

E.  Pauline  Johnson. 


SONG  OF  THE  GOLDEN  SEA 

Sing,  ye  ripening  fields  of  wheat. 

Sing  to  the  breezes  passing  by. 
Sing  your  jubilant  song  and  sweet, 

Sing  to  the  earth,  the  air,  the  sky ! 

Earth  that  held  thee  and  skies  that  kissed 
Morning  and  noon  and  night  for  long, 

Sun  and  rain  and  dew  and  mist. 
All  that  has  made  you  glad  and  strong. 

The  harvest  fields  of  the  far,  far  west 
Stretch  out  a  shimmering  sea  of  gold ! 

Every  ripple  upon  its  breast 

Sings  peace,  and  plenty,  and  wealth  untold ! 

Far  as  the  eye  can  reach  it  goes, 
Farther  yet,  till  there  seems  no  end, 

Under  a  sky  where  blue  and  rose 
With  the  gold  and  turquoise  softly  blend. 

Here,  where  sweep  the  prairies  lone. 
Broad  and  beautiful  in  God's  eyes. 

Here  in  this  young  land,  all  our  own, 
The  garner-house  of  the  old  world  lies. 

Jean  Blewett. 


An  August  Wood  Road  117 


AN  AUGUST  WOOD  ROAD 

When  the  partridge  coveys  fly 
In  the  birch- tops  cool  and  high| 

When  the  dry  cicadas  twang 
When  the  purpling  fir-cones  bang; 

When  the  bunch-berries  emboss — 
Scarlet  beads — the  roadside  moss  : 

Brown  with  shadows,  bright  with  sun, 
All  day  long  till  day  is  done 

Sleeps  in  murmuring  solitude 

The  worn  old  road  that  threads  the  wood. 

In  its  deep  cup — grassy,  cool — 
Sleeps  the  httle  roadside  pool. 

Sleeps  the  butterfly  on  the  weed, 
Sleeps  the  drifted  thistle  seedg 

Like  a  great  and  blazing  gem. 
Basks  the  beetle  on  the  stem. 

Up  and  down  the  sliining  rays 
Dancing  midges  weave  their  maze, 

High  among  the  moveless  boughs, 
Drunk  with  day,  the  night  hawks  drowse. 

Far  up,  unfathomably  blue, 
August's  heaven  vibrates  through* 

The  old  road  leads  to  all  things  good ; 
The  year's  at  full,  and  time's  at  flood, 

C.  G.  D.  Roberts. 


1 1 8  Frost  Song 


THE  SILENT  SNOW 

To-day  the  earth  has  not  a  word  to  speak. 

The  snow  comes  down  as  softly  through  the  air 

As  pitying  heaven  to  a  martyr's  prayer, 

Or  white  grave  roses  to  a  blooming  cheek. 

The  footsteps  of  the  snow,  as  white  and  meek 

As  angel  travellers,  are  everywhere — 

On  fence  and  briar  and  up  the  forest  stair. 

And  on  the  wind's  trail  o'er  the  moorland  bleak. 

They  tread  the  rugged  road  as  tenderly 

As  April  venturing  her  first  caress; 

They  drown  the  old  earth's  furrowed  griefs  and  scars 

Within  the  white  foam  of  a  soundless  sea. 

And  bring  a  deeper  depth  of  quietness 

To  graves  asleep  beneath  the  silent  stars. 

Ethelwyn  Wetherald. 


FROST  SONG 

Here  where  the  bee  slept  and  the  orchis  lifted 
Her  honeying  pipes  of  pearl,  her  velvet  lip. 

Only  the  swart  leaves  of  the  oak  lie  drifted 
In  sombre  fellowship. 

Here  where  the  flame-weed  set  the  lands  alight 

Lies  the  bleak  upland,  webbed  and  crowned  with  white. 

Build  high  the  logs,  0  love,  and  in  thine  eyes 

Let  me  believe  the  summer  lingers  late. 
We  shall  not  miss  her  passive  pageantries 

We  are  not  desolate. 
When  on  the  sill,  across  the  window  bars. 
Kind  winter  flings  her  flowers  and  her  stars. 

Majorie  C.  L.  Pickthall. 


Tree  Memories  119 


TREE  MEMORIES 

The  woodland  stretched  its  arms  to  me, 

And  into  its  heart  I  went; 
While  by  my  side  invisibly 

Walked  musing-eyed  Content. 

The  woodland  spake  no  word  to  me, 
But,  oh,  its  thoughts  were  sweet; 

Against  my  spirit  like  a  sea 
I  felt  the  thought-waves  beat. 

Before  my  vision,  stained  and  dull, 
The  wood-shapes  dropped  their  gold ; 

The  young  child-trees  were  beautiful, 
More  beautiful  the  old. 

Within  their  halls  of  memory 

What  heavenly  scenes  are  drawn : 

The  stream,  the  wild  bird's  company. 
The  sky's  cool  face  at  dawn; 

The  golden  lances  of  the  sun. 

The  rain  that  feels  its  way. 
The  twilight  steps  that  one  by  one, 

Lead  to  the  moon's  white  ray; 

The  multitude  of  light  leaf- forms 

Engraved  on  earth  and  air. 
The  black  and  gold  of  midnight  storms, 

The  blue  that  violets  wear : 

The  wind  that  brings  from  clover  farms 

A  picture  white  and  red. 
Or  later  gathers  in  his  arms 

The  woodland's  fragile  dead. 

These  throng  the  woodland  memories; 
Upon  this  perfumed  track 


I  2  0  The  Maple 

The  thoughts  of  all  the  silent  trees 
Go  wandering  back  and  back. 

This  is  the  charm  that  cometh  last, 
'^ Of  all  these  sweets  the  sum: 
The  feelings  of  green  summers  past, 
And  fair  green  springs  to  come. 

Ethel WYN  Wether ald. 


THE  MAPLE 

All  hail  to  the  broad-leaved  Maple ! 

With  its  fair  and  changeful  dress — 
A  type  of  our  youthful  country 

In  its  pride  and  loveliness; 
Whether  in  spring  or  summer 

Or  in  the  dreary  fall, 
'Mid  Nature's  fairest  children. 

She's  fairest  of  them  all. 

Down  many  slopes  and  valleys 

Her  graceful  form  is  seen, 
Her  wide  umbrageous  branches 

The  sun-burnt  reaper  screen; 
'Mid  the  dark  brown  firs  and  cedars 

Her  livelier  colours  shine, 
Like  the  dawn  of  a  brighter  future 

On  the  settler's  hut  of  pine. 

She  crowns  the  pleasant  hill-top. 

Whispers  on  breezy  downs. 
And  casts  refreshing  shadows 

O'er  the  streets  of  our  busy  towns; 
She  gladdens  the  aching  eyeball. 

Shelters  the  weary  head. 
And  scatters  her  crimson  glories 

O'er  the  graves  of  the  silent  dead. 

When  winter  frosts  are  yielding 
To  the  sun's  returning  sway. 

And  merry  groups  are  speeding 
To  sugar  woods  away, 


Among  the  Pines  121 

The  sweet  and  welling  pieces, 

Which  form  their  welcome  spoil. 
Tell  of  the  teeming  plenty 

Which  here  waits  honest  toil. 

When  sweet-voiced  spring  soft  breathing, 

Breaks  Nature's  icy  sleep, 
And  the  forest  boughs  are  swaying 

Like  the  green  waves  of  the  deep; 
In  her  fair  and  budding  beauty, 

A  fitting  emblem  she 
Of  this  our  land  of  promise. 

Of  hope,  of  liberty. 

And  when  her  leaves,  all  crimson, 

Drop  silently  and  fall, 
Like  drops  of  life-blood  welling 

From  a  warrior  brave  and  tall, 
They  tell  how  fast  and  freely 

Would  her  children's  blood  be  shed, 
Ere  the  soil  of  our  faith  and  freedom 

Should  echo  a  foeman's  tread. 

Then  hail  to  the  broad-leaved  Maple ! 

With  her  fair  and  changeful  dress — 
A  type  of  our  youthful  country 

In  its  pride  and  loveliness; 
Whether  in  spring  or  summer 

Or  in  the  dreary  fall, 
'Mid  Nature's  forest  children, 

She's  fairest  of  them  all. 

Rev.  H.  F.  Darnell. 


AMONG  THE  PINES 

Like  Druid  priests,  dark  vestured,  slim. 

Burdened  with  mysteries. 
They  wake  throughout  their  green  aisles  dim 

Weird  melodies. 


122  The  Pines 

Rhythmic  within  their  swaying  limbs 

The  prisoned  music  swells, 
Far  cadence  of  cathedral  hymns 

And  calling  bells. 

The  infinite  loneliness  of  night, 

Bereft  of  joy  or  pain, 
And  passion  of  long-lost  delight 

Ebb  in  the  strain. 

The  wash  of  low  monotonous  waves 

On  shores  unvisited. 
The  grasses  whispering  on  graves 

Where  hearts  have  bled. 

The  travail  of  a  world  that  lies 

Below  our  consciousness. 
These  wandering  and  plaintive  sighs 

Faintly  express. 

The  dreaming  and  unconscious  things 

Imprisoned  in  the  clod, 
Voice  through  these  fitful  murmurings 

Their  thought  of  God. 

Helena  Coleman. 


THE  PINES 

0  HEARD  ye  the  pines  in  their  solitude  sigh, 
When  the  winds  were  awakened  and  night  was  nigh.^ 
When  the  elms  breathed  out  a  sorrowful  tale. 
Which  was  wafted  away  on  the  wings  of  the  gale ; 

When  the  aspen  leaf  whispered  a  legend  dread, 
And  the  willows  waved  darkly  over  the  dead ; 
And  the  poplar  shone  with  a  silvery  gleam. 
And  trembled  like  one  in  a  troubled  dream; 

And  the  cypresses  murmured  of  grief  and  woe, 

And  the  linden  waved  solemnly  to  and  fro. 

And  the  sumach  seemed  wrapt  in  a  golden  mist, 

And  the  soft  maple  blushed  where  the  frost  had  kissed ; 


The  Indian  Pipe  123 

And  the  spectral  birch  stood  alone  in  the  gloom. 
Like  an  unquiet  spirit  uprist  from  the  tomb; 
And  the  cedar  outstretched  its  lone  arms  to  the  earth, 
To  feed  with  sweet  moisture  the  place  of  its  birth ; 

And  the  hemlock,  uplifted  above  the  crowd, 
Drank  deeply  of  mist  at  the  brink  of  a  cloud ; 
And  the  balsams  with  curtains  of  shaggy  green, 
Like  tents  in  the  distance  were  dimly  seen. 

I  heard  the  pines  in  their  solitude  crying, 

When  the  winds  were  awakened,  and  the  day  was  dying; 

And  fierce  the  storm  grew,  and  darker  its  pall, 

But  the  voice  of  the  pines  was  louder  than  all, 

Charles  Mair. 


THE  INDIAN  PIPE 

Around  the  clustering  beeches,  hidden  deep. 
When  scarce  at  noon  the  July  sunbeams  creep. 
Where  on  the  bough  the  humming  bird's  small  nest 
Seems,  like  a  knot  of  lichen,  light  to  rest, 
From  the  dead  leaves  of  last  autumn  ripe 
Rise  the  white  clusters  of  the  Indian  pipe. 

Is  it  an  earthly  flower  or  ghostly  shade, 
From  fields  Tartarean  to  our  forest  strayed  ? 
Or  wrought  from  stainless  marble,  carven  fine 
By  cunning  sculptor  in  a  quaint  design, 
In  mimic  semblance  of  the  pipe  of  peace 
That  warriors  smoke  when  war  and  havoc  cease  ? 

All  waxen  white  in  stem,  and  leaf,  and  flower 
It  stands — a  vision  strange  in  summer  bower; 
But  whence  the  form  its  bending  blossoms  wear.? 
Does  the  pale  bloom  a  runic  legend  bear? 
Then  murmuring  rose  the  breeeze  of  eventide. 
And,  whispering  low,  an  ancient  sorrow  sighed ! 

Here,  long  ago,  amid  this  sylvan  shade, 
There  grew  in  budding  bloom  an  Indian  maid, 


124  '^h^  May-Flower 

Her  father's  only  child — his  joy  and  pride — 
She  seemed  a  lily  by  a  cedar's  side; 
Careless  she  roamed,  until  one  fatal  day 
A  pale-face  stranger  stole  her  heart  away, 

Could  a  chief's  daughter  with  such  lover  go  ? 
Leave  sire  and  nation  for  her  people's  foe  ? 
Nay !  better  death  than  baseness  such  as  this ! 
Yet  youth  and  joy  went  with  his  parting  kiss, 
And,  like  another  Iphigenia  brave. 
Swift-ebbing  life  for  sire  and  race  she  gave ! 
But  one  last  boon  she  sought  with  parting  life — 
That  with  her  death  should  end  the  vexing  strife : 
'Twixt  white  and  red  man  war  and  feud  should  cease. 
While  o'er  her  grave  they  smoked  the  pipe  of  peace; 
And  there,  ere  maize  and  wilding  rice  were  ripe. 
Sprang  the  pale  clusters  of  the  Indian  pipe ! 


THE  MAY-FLOWER  1 

When  the  maple  wears  its  tassels  and  the  birch  buds  grow 

apace. 
And  the  willows  gleam  out  golden  in  the  sunset's  tender 

grace. 
And  the  ferns  amid  the  rushes  first  their  curly  heads  uprear, 
Then  awakes  our  wilding  blossom,  first  and  fairest  of  the 

year — 
The  May-flower — oh,  the  May-flower! — sweet  of  scent  and 

fair  to  see, 
Tiny  trailing  pink  arbutus — chosen  flower  of  Acadie ! 

Sheltered  'neath  the  sloping  pear-boughs — see  its  tendrils 

creeping  low. 
Gleam   in   freshly  glistening  verdure   through   the   swiftly 

melting  snow. 
Till  the  pink  buds  in  the  sunshine  open  wide  their  throats  to 

fling 
From  their  censers,  rarest  incense  on  the  balmy  air  of  spring — 

*  The  trailing  arbutus,  the  special  flower  of  Nova  Scotia. 


The  May-Flower  125 

The  May-flower — oh,  the  May-flower! — sweet  of  scent  and 

fair  to  see, 
How  we  hail  thee  in  the  springtime — chosen  flower  of  Acadie ! 

There's  the  robin  plaintive,  fluting  in  the  budding  boughs 

above, 
And  the  cat-bird  sweetly  warbling  for  the  pleasure  of  his 

love; 
Are  they  telling  the  old  story,  how  a  gentle  Indian  maid. 
Vainly  seeking  her  lost  lover,  through  the  forest  tireless 

strayed  ? 
The  May-flower — oh,  the  May-flower! — sweet  of  scent  and 

fair  to  see. 
All  the  woodland  feels  thy  fragrance,  chosen  flower  of  Acadie ! 

Do  they  tell  how — mid  her  sorrow  for  the  one  she  held  so 

dear — 
Every  sad  and  suffering  creature  still  she  sought  to  help  and 

cheer. 
Till  there  sprang  up  in  the  pathway  of  her  ministering  feet. 
The  bright  May-flower's  tender  blossom — full  of  fragrance 

rare  and  sweet? 
The  May-flower — oh,  the  May-flower! — sweet  of  scent  and 

fair  to  see. 
Filled  with  all  the  springtime's  sweetness — chosen  flower  of 

Acadie ! 

Passing  years  bring  many  changes — joy  and  sorrow  come 
and  go, 

Yet  unchanged  the  May-flower  wakens  at  the  melting  of  the 
snow; 

Though  unseen,  its  fragrance,  breathing  through  the  bud- 
ding woodland  maze. 

Brings  sweet  foretaste  of  the  summer  to  the  changeful  April 
days. 

The  May-flower — oh,  the  May-flower!  sweet  of  scent  and 
fair  to  see. 

With  love's  fragrant  breath  thou'rt  laden,  chosen  flower  of 
Acadie ! 

Years  have  glided  into  ages,  and  the  centuries  grown  gray. 
Still  as  fresh  and  sweet  as  ever  does  the  May-flower  greet  the 
May; 


126  Why  Blossoms  Fall 


And  the  heaviest  heart  grows  Hghter  as  it  hails  thy  promise 

true^ 
Of  the  love  that  lives  for  ever,  and  shall  make  all  old  things 

new! 
The  May-flower — oh,  the  May-flower! — sweet  of  scent  and 

fair  to  see, 
Shedding  spring's  divinest  fragrance  through  the  woods  of 

Acadie ! 

Agnes  Maude  Machar. 


WHY  BLOSSOMS  FALL 

Dear  Mother  Earth  her  children  trees 

Clads  well  in  robes  of  white, 
That  they  may  rest  in  perfect  peace 

Through  all  the  winter  night. 

When  Spring,  the  morning,  softly  dawns, 

She  calls  each  sleeping  one. 
Who  wakens,  slowly  sighs,  and  yawns, 

Till  day  is  well  begun. 

Soon  April  brings  a  shower  bath. 
And  May  fresh  garments  clean; 

Bright  trimmings  gay  each  maiden  hath, 
The  lads  wear  sober  green. 

The  sister-winds  their  playmates  are, 

The  gentle  South  and  West, 
And  quickly  come  they  from  afar 

To  help  them  all  get  drest. 

,  Each  garment  new  is  soon  unrolled. 
And  smoothed  well  in  its  place, 

Till  not  a  crease  or  crumpled  fold 
Can  anybody  trace. 

And  then  they  hum  a  tuneful  song 

And  play  at  in-and-out. 
Until  their  brothers  come  along, 

And  join  them  with  a  shout. 


The  Indigo  Bird  i  27 

The  brothers,  North  and  East  are  rough, 

And  play  with  such  wild  glee, 
They  tear  the  pretty  trimming  stuff 

Off  every  maiden  tree. 

So  this  is  why  the  blossoms  fall 

And  leaves  oft  times  look  creased ; 
The  boisterous  brothers  do  it  all. 

The  merry  North  and  East. 

Alma  Frances  McCollum. 


THE  INDIGO  BIRD 

When  I  see, 

High  on  the  tip-top  twig  of  a  tree, 

Something  blue  by  the  breezes  stirred. 

But  so  far  up  that  the  blue  is  blurred, 

So  far  up  no  green  leaf  flies 

'Twixt  its  blue  and  the  blue  of  the  skies, 

Then  I  know,  ere  a  note  be  heard. 

That  is  naught  but  the  Indigo  bird. 

Blue  on  the  branch  and  blue  in  the  sky. 
And  naught  between  but  the  breezes  high, 
And  naught  so  blue  by  the  breezes  stirred 
As  the  deep,  deep  blue  of  the  Indigo  bird. 

When  I  hear 

A  song  like  a  bird  laugh,  blithe  and  clear, 
As  though  of  some  airy  jest  he  had  heard 
The  last  and  most  delightful  word; 
A  laugh  as  fresh  in  the  August  haze 
As  it  was  in  the  full-voiced  April  days  ; 
Then  I  know  that  my  heart  is  stirred 
By  the  laugh-like  song  of  the  Indigo  bird. 

Joy  on  the  branch  and  joy  in  the  sky. 
And  naught  between  but  the  breezes  high ; 
And  naught  so  glad  on  the  breezes  heard 
As  the  gay,  gay  note  of  the  Indigo  bird. 

Ethelwyn  Wetherald, 


I  28  Sand  Pipers 


SAND  PIPERS 

Morning  on  the  misty  highlands, 
On  the  outer,  shining  islands ; 
Gulls  their  grey  way  seaward  winging 
To  the  blinking  zones  of  blue — 
South  winds  in  the  sallows  singing, 
Where  I  wander  far  with  you, 
Little  pipers,  careless,  free, 
On  the  sandlands  of  the  sea. 

All  day  on  the  amber  edges 
Of  the  pools  and  silver  ledges 
Of  the  sedgelands  in  the  sun 
Restlessly  the  pipers  run. 
Weet,  a-weet,  a-weet,  a-weet — 
Sun,  and  wind,  and  sifting  sand, 
Joy  of  June  on  sea  and  land, 
Weet,  a-weet,  a-weet,  weet  weet. 

.  .  .  •  • 

Evening  on  the  fading  highlands, 
On  the  outer,  amber  islands; 
Grey  wings  folded  in  the  sedges. 
In  the  glimmer  of  a  star 
Where  the  lamps  of  Algol  are. 
Shining  on  a  world's  white  edges. 

■  •  •  •  • 

Moonlight  on  the  sombre  forelands, 
On  the  outer,  silver  shorelands; 
Peaceful  mists  that  pale  and  drift 
Seaward  like  a  phantom  fleet, 
Through  a  sapphire,  shadowed  rift — 
Weet,  a-weet,  weet  weet,  weet  weet — 
Night,  and  stars,  and  empty  hushes, 
Darkness  in  the  purple  rushes, 
Weet,  weet  weet,  weet  weet,  weet  weet. 

Helen  M.  Merrill. 


The  Night  Bird  129 


WHIP-POOR-WILL 

There  is  a  lonely  spirit, 

Which  wanders  through  the  wood, 
And  tells  its  mournful  story, 

In  every  solitude. 
It  comes  abroad  at  eventide, 

And  hangs  beside  the  rill, 
And  murmurs  to  the  passer-by, 

"  Whip-poor-will." 

Oh,  'tis  a  hapless  spirit, 

In  likeness  of  a  bird ! 
A  grief  that  cannot  utter 

Another  woeful  word. 
A  soul  that  seeks  for  sympathy, 

A  woe  that  won't  be  still ; 
A  wandering  sorrow  murmuring, 

"  Whip-poor-will." 

A.  McLachlan. 


THE  NIGHT  BIRD 

Down  where  the  cedars  are  bending, 
Down  by  the  side  of  the  river. 
Where  the  dark  waters  are  wending 
Their  way  to  the  ocean  for  ever, 

One  night  I  heard 

A  lonely  bird 
Singing,  Oh!  so  sadly  singing, 

There  was  such  pain 

In  its  wild  strain 
So  plaintive  and  so  ringing. 
I  paused  to  listen  and  methought 
The  sounds  were  into  meaning  wrought; 

While,  faint  and  low 
As  sobs  of  woe. 


130  The  Night  Bird 

The  lone  bird  kept  repeating 

The  strange  refrain 

Of  its  wild  strain, 
Where  crowded  shadows  meeting 

Made  that  solitary  grove 

Like  to  a  grave  of  love. 

"  Rolled,  rolled  in  the  greedy  mould 
That  taketh  and  nothing  giveth. 
Where,  where,  in  a  dumb  despair. 
No  hope  of  the  future  liveth; 
Lies,  lies,  with  o'er-shaded  eyes, 
A  being  of  many  the  fairest. 
While,  while,  like  a  desert  isle. 
My  bosom  the  night  wind  barest. 
Strong,  strong,  is  the  Giant  Wrong, 
And  he  mates  with  a  demon  cruel; 

"  Higher,  higher,  he  buildeth  a  fire. 

And  human  hearts  are  the  fuel; 

Bright,  bright,  in  the  morning  light, 

Beauty  and  love  came  flying. 

Laid,  laid,  in  deathly  shade 

Ere  eve  they  were  crushed  and  dying ! 

Woe,  woe,  against  all  below 

That  liveth  and  loveth  is  written: 

Life,  life,  is  a  bitter  strife. 

Where  the  best  are  the  soonest  smitten. ]| 

"  Here,  here,  on  this  hapless  sphere. 
All  that  are  beautiful  perish; 
Hope,  hope,  hath  no  wider  scope 
Than  faint  recollections  we  cherish. 
Earth,  earth,  had  its  hours  of  mirth. 
But  woe  is  an  old,  old  story; 
Fast,  fast,  in  the  gliding  past, 
Fleeth  our  dreams  of  glory!  " 

0  hush !  unhappy  thing,  I  cried. 
Though  fate  hath  left  thee  naught  beside 

Hast  thou  not  faith  and  duty  ? 
What  matters  the  loss  of  a  toy  of  clay — 


The  Canadian  Whitethroat  131 

The  perishing  birth  of  a  perishing  day — 
Though  it  were  a  thing  of  beauty ! 

Can  death  destroy 

The  lasting  joy 
That  springs  from  a  hope  immortal, 

Or  can  grieving  bring 

Thee  back  the  thing 
That  has  passed  beyond  life's  portal? 
Still,  still,  from  the  grave  you  fill, 

Cometh  a  voice  supernal; 
Trust,  trust,  in  thy  God — He  is  just — 
And  thy  sorrows  will  not  be  eternal ! 

Caroll  Ryan. 


THE  CANADIAN  WHITETHROAT 

From  the  leafy  maple  ridges. 
From  the  thickets  of  the  cedar, 
From  the  alders  by  the  river, 
From  the  bending  willow  branches. 
From  the  hollows  and  the  hillsides. 
Through  the  lone  Canadian  forest. 
Comes  the  melancholy  music. 
Oft  repeated — never  changing — 
"  All — is — vanity- vanity- vanity !  " 

When  the  farmer  ploughs  his  furrow, 
Sowing  seed  with  hope  of  harvest, 
In  the  orchard  white  with  blossom, 
In  the  early  field  of  clover. 
Comes  the  little  brown-clad  singer. 
Flitting  in  and  out  of  bushes. 
Hiding  well  behind  the  fences. 
Piping  forth  his  song  of  sadness — 

"  Poor — hu — manity-manity-manity !" 

J.  D.  Edgar. 


132  The  Injun 


THE  PELICAN 

Upon  a  Western  prairie  once  I  met 
A  flock  of  pelicans — a  glorious  sight ! 
Now  in  the  sun  they  gleamed  a  dazzling  white, 
Now,  circling,  darkened  to  a  silhouette; 
Great-breasted  things  with  sweeping  pinions  set 
To  rhythmic  curves  of  slow,  majestic  flight, 
They  rose  into  the  measureless  blue  height, 
Undaunted,  radiant — I  see  them  yet. 

I  see  them  yet !  for  when  I  turn  my  eyes 
Beyond  the  city  walls  of  my  despite. 
Behold  their  buoyant  forms  still  sweep  the  skies 
Like  spirits  of  the  air,  incarnate,  bright. 
And  something  untamed  in  me  seems  to  rise 
And  with  them  breast  those  boundless  seas  of  light ! 

Helena  Coleman. 


THE  INJUN 
(An  incident  of  the  Minnesota  massacre  oj  1862) 

Ye  say  the  Injuns  all  alike, 

A  bad  an'  sneakin'  lot; 
An'  ain't  no  use  for  nuthin'. 

So  the  cusses  should  be  shot? 

Well,  p'raps  they  is,  and  p'raps  they  ain't, 

A  lazy  wuthless  crowd ; 
Yet  durn  my  skin  if  I  kin  see 

Why  white  men  chin  so  loud. 

Ef  some  o'  them  poor  devils  kicks 
'Cause  things  ain't  run  quite  squar; 

An'  jumps  an  Indian  agent's  ranch, 
An'  yanks  his  bloomin'  har, 

Thar'  ain't  no  thought  uv  causes. 
An'  no  one  cares  a  cuss, 


The  Injun  133 

It's  jes'  call  out  the  Blue  Coats, 
An'  give  'em  somethin'  wuss. 

Thar's  good  an'  bad  in  Injuns 

An'  thar's  good  an'  bad  in  White; 
But  somehow  they  is  always  wrong, 

An'  we  is  alius  right. 

But  I'm  an  old,  old  timer, 

I've  jes'  bin  here  so  long. 
That  I  kin  mostly  alius  tell 

The  ones  that's  right  an'  wrong. 

An'  ye  can  bet  yer  sainted  life. 

When  things  get  steamin'  hot. 
That  some  white  fool  or  knave  has  lit 

The  fire  that  biles  the  pot. 

Ye  think  the  Injun  isn't  squar', 

That's  jes'  whar'  ye  mistake; 
For  bein'  true  to  them  that's  true 

The  Injun  scoops  the  cake. 

For  I  kin  tell  ye  what  occurr'd 

Way  back  in  sixty-two. 
When  things  in  Minnesota  State 

Wuz  lookin'  kinder  blue. 

The  Sioux  wer  up  an'  on  the  shoot, 

A-slingin'  round  their  lead. 
An'  scalpin'  every  mother's  son 

That  wasn't  bald  or  dead. 

Thar  wam't  a  living  Yankee — 

An'  lots  sing  brave  and  bold — 
That  would  have  crossed  the  plains  alone 

For  a  waggon-load  uv  gold. 

'Cause  why?    We  know'd  the  Guv'ment 

Wuzn't  treatin'  Injuns  fair; 
That's  why  they  riz  an'  painted  things 

An'  raised  the  settlers'  har. 


I  34  The  Injun 


That  summer  a  fur  trader 

Came  up  from  Montreal, 
An'  on  his  way  to  Gany 

He  landed  at  Saint  Paul. 

An'  all  the  guides  an'  hunters  said 
He  couldn't  cross  the  plains, 

Fo  them  thar'  painted  devils 
Wuz  layin'  low  fer  trains. 

He  only  laffed  and  said  he  know'd 

The  Injuns  all  his  life, 
An'  he  wuz  goin'  to  mosey  through 

An'  take  along  his  wife. 

An'  she,  you  bet,  wuz  plucky, 

An'  said  she'd  go  along, 
For  Injuns  only  went  for  them 

As  alius  done  them  wrong. 

Now  I  should  smile,  'twuz  risky — 

An'  all  the  fellers  sed 
The  chances  of  thar  gettin'  through 

Wam't  worth  an  ounce  of  lead. 

But  sure's  yer  born  they  started. 
Right  out  the  northern  trail, 

Aboard  a  prairee  schooner. 
With  a  Texan  steer  fer  sail. 

An'  right  a-top  that  creekin'  cart. 

Upon  the  highest  rack 
That  trader  nailed  a  bloomin'  rag — 

An  English  Union  Jack. 

So  thar'  he'd  gone  an'  done  it, 

Es  stubborn  as  a  mule; 
An'  knowin'  fellers  said  we's  seen 

The  last  of  that  damn  fool. 

They  wuzn't  long  upon  the  trail 
Before  a  band  of  Reds 


The  Injun  135 

Got  on  their  tracks,  an'  foller'd  up 
Agoin'  to  shave  thair  heads. 

But  when  they  see  that  Httle  flag 

A-stickin'  on  that  cart 
They  jes'  said,  "  Hudson  Bay,  go  on. 

Good  trader  with  good  heart !  " 

An'  when  they  struck  the  river, 

An'  took  to  their  canoe, 
'Twuz  that  thar'  bit  of  culler 

That  seen  'em  safely  through. 

Fer  that  cussed  little  rag 
Went  floatin'  through  the  state — 

A-flappin'  in  the  face  uv  death, 
An'  smilin'  right  at  fate. 

That  wuz  the  way  them  'tarnal  fools 
Crossed  them  thar'  blazin'  plains. 

An'  floated  down  the  windin'  Red 
Through  waves  with  bloody  stains- 

What  give  that  flag  its  virtoo? 

What's  thar'  in  red  an'  blue. 
To  make  a  man  an'  woman  dar' 

What  others  doesn't  do  ? 

Jes'  this — an'  Injuns  knowed  it — 

That  whar'  them  cullers  flew 
The  men  that  lived  beneath  them 

Wuz  mostly  straight  an'  true. 

That  when  they  made  a  bargain, 

'Twuz  jes'  as  strong  an'  tight 
As  if  'twere  drawn  on  sheep-skin. 

An'  signed  in  black  an'  white. 

That's  how  them  Hudson  traders  done, 

Fer  mor'n  two  hundred  year; 
That's  why  that  trader  feller  crossed 

Them  plains  without  a  fear. 


136      The  Huron  Chief's  Daughter 

An'  jes'  so  long  es  white  men 
Don't  try  some  little  game, 

To  euchre  out  the  red  man, 
So  long  he'll  act  the  same. 

But  when  the  men  beneath  that  flag 

Tries  any  monkey  ways, 
Then,  good-bye,  old  time  friendship, 

Fer  the  Injuns  goin'  to  raise. 

But  jes'  believe  me,  onst  fer  all, 
To  them  that  treats  him  fair. 

The  Injun  mostly  alius  wuz. 
And  is,  and  will  be,  square. 

John  E.  Logan, 


THE  HURON  CHIEF'S  DAUGHTER 

The  dusky  warriors  stood  in  groups  around  the  funeral  pyre; 
The  scowl  upon  their  knitted  brows  betrayed  their  vengeful 

ire. 
It  needed  not  the  cords,  the  stake,  the  rites  so  stern  and  rude, 
To  tell  it  was  to  be  a  scene  of  cruelty  and  blood.  .  .  . 

0  lovely  was  that  winsome  child  of  a  dark  and  rugged  line, 
And  e'en  'mid  Europe's  daughters  fair,  surpassing  she  might 

shine : 
For  ne'er  had  coral  lips  been  wreathed  by  brighter,  sunnier 

smile, 
Or  dark  eyes  beamed  with  lustrous  light  more  full  of  winsome 

wile. 

And  yet  it  was  not  wonderful,  that  haughty  high-born  grace, 
She  stood  amid  her  direst  foes  a  princess  of  her  race; 
Knowing  they'd  met  to  wreak  on  her  their  hatred  'gainst  her 

name. 
To  doom  her  to  a  fearful  death,  to  pangs  of  fire  and  flame. ,  .  . 


The  Huron  Chief's  Daughter       i  37 

One  moment — then  her  proud  glance  fled,  her  form  she 

humbly  bowed, 
A  softened  light  stole  o'er  her  brow,  she  prayed  to  heaven 

aloud : 
"  Hear  me,  Thou  great  and  glorious  One,  Protector  of  my 

race, 
Whom  in  the  far-oflf  Spirit-land  I'll  soon  see  face  to  face! 

"  Pour  down  Thy  blessings  on  my  tribe,  may  they  triumphant 

rise 
Above  the  guileful  Iroquois — Thine  and  our  enemies ; 
And  give  me  strength  to  bear  each  pang  with  courage  high 

and  free, 
That,  dying  thus,  I  may  be  fit  to  reign,  0  God,  with  Thee." 

Her  prayer  was  ended,  and  again,  like  crowned  and  sceptred 

queen. 
She  wore  anew  her  lofty  smile,  her  high  and  royal  mien, 
E'en  though  the  chief  the  signal  gave,  and  quick  two  warriors 

dire 
Sprang  forth  to  lead  the  dauntless  girl  to  the  lit  funeral  pyre. 

Back  with  an  eye  of  flashing  scorn  recoiled  she  from  their 

grasp, 
"  Nay,  touch  me  not,  I'd  rather  meet  the  coil  of  poisoned  asp ! 
My  aged  sire  and  all  my  tribe  will  learn  with  honest  pride 
That,  as  befits  a  Huron's  child,  their  chieftain's  daughter 

died." 

She  dashed  aside  her  tresses  dark  with  bright  and  fearless 

smile. 
And  like  a  fawn  she  bounded  on  the  fearful  funeral  pile; 
And  even  while  those  blood-stained  men  fulfilled  their  cruel 

part 
They  praised   that  maiden's   courage   rare,   her  high  and 

dauntless  heart. 

Mrs.  Leprohon. 


138        How  the  Mohawks  Set  Out 


HOW  THE  MOHAWKS  SET  OUT  FOR  MEDOCTEC 

When  invading  Mohawks  captured  the  outlying  Melicite  village  of 
Madawaska,  they  spared  two  squaws  to  guide  them  down  stream 
to  the  main  Melicite  town  of  Medoctec  below  Grand  Falls.  The 
squaws  steered  themselves  and  their  captors  over  the  Falls. 


Grows  the  great  deed,  though  none 
Shout  to  behold  it  done ! 
To  the  brave  deed  done  by  night 
Heaven  testifies  in  the  light. 

Stealthy  and  swift  as  a  dream, 
Crowding  the  breast  of  the  stream, 
In  their  paint  and  plumes  of  war, 
And  their  war  canoes  four-score, 

They  are  threading  the  Oolastook, 
Where  his  cradling  hills  outlook, 
The  branchy  thickets  hide  them; 
The  unstartled  waters  guide  them. 

II 

Comes  night  to  the  quiet  hills 
Where  the  Madawaska  spills — 
To  his  slumbering  huts  no  warning. 
Nor  mirth  of  another  morning  1 

No  more  shall  the  children  wake 

As  the  dawns  through  the  hut-door  break; 

But  the  dogs,  a  trembling  pack, 

With  wistful  eyes  steal  back. 

And  to  pilot  the  noiseless  foe 
Through  the  perilous  passes,  go 
Two  women  who  could  not  die — 
Whom  the  knife  in  the  dark  passed  by. 


How  the  Mohawks  Set  Out        139 


III 

Where  the  shoaling  waters  froth, 
Churned  thick  Hke  devil's  broth, 
Where  the  rocky  shark- jaw  waits. 
Never  a  bark  that  grates. 

And  the  tearless  captives'  skill 
Contents  them.     Onward  still ! 
And  the  low-voiced  captives  tell 
The  tidings  that  cheer  them  well : 

How  a  clear  stream  leads  them  down 
Well-nigh  to  Medoctec  town. 
Ere  to  the  Great  Falls'  thunder 
The  long  wall  yawns  asunder. 

IV 

The  clear  stream  glimmers  before  them, 
The  faint  night  fallen  o'er  them; 
Lashed  lightly  bark  to  bark, 
They  glide  the  windless  dark. 

Late  grows  the  night.    No  fear 
While  the  skilful  captives  steer! 
Sleeps  the  tired  warrior,  sleeps 
The  chief;  and  the  river  creeps. 


In  the  toAvn  of  the  Melicite 
The  unjarred  peace  is  sweet, 
Green  grows  the  com  and  great, 
And  the  hunt  is  fortunate. 

This  many  a  heedless  year 
The  Mohawks  come  not  near. 
The  lodge-gate  stands  unbarred; 
Scarce  even  a  dog  keeps  guard. 

No  mother  shrieks  from  a  dream 
Of  blood  on  the  threshold  stream — 
But  the  thought  of  those  mute  guides 
Is  where  the  sleeper  bides ! 


T40  Silhouette 

VI 

Gets  forth  those  cavemed  walls 
No  roar  from  the  giant  Falls, 
Whose  mountainous  foam  treads  under 
The  abyss  of  awful  thunder. 

But  the  river's  sudden  speed ! 
How  the  ghost-grey  shores  recede ! 
And  the  tearless  pilots  hear 
A  muttering  voice  creep  near. 

A  tremor !    The  blanched  waves  leap, 
The  warriors  start  from  sleep. 
Faints  in  the  sudden  blare 
The  cr}^  of  their  despair, 

And  the  captives'  death  chant  shrills, 
But  afar,  remote  from  ills, 
Quiet  under  the  quiet  skies, 
The  Melicite  village  lies. 

C.  G.  D.  Roberts. 


SILHOUETTE 

The  sky-line  melts  from  russet  into  blue, 
Unbroken  the  horizon,  saving  where 
A  wreath  of  smoke  curls  up  the  far  thin  air. 

And  points  the  distant  lodges  of  the  Sioux. 

Etched  where  the  lands  and  cloudlands  touch  and  die 

A  solitary  Indian  tepee  stands. 

The  only  habitation  of  these  lands, 
That  roll  their  magnitude  from  sky  to  sky. 

The  tent  poles  lift  and  loom  in  their  relief, 
The  upward  floating  smoke  ascends  between, 
And  near  the  open  doorway,  gaunt  and  lean. 

And  shadow-like  there  stands  an  Indian  chief. 


The  Quill  Worker  141 

With  eyes  that  lost  their  lustre  long  ago, 
With  visage  fixed  and  stem  as  fate's  decree. 
He  looks  towards  the  empty  west,  to  see 

The  never-coming  herd  of  buffalo. 

Only  the  bones  that  bleach  upon  the  plains. 

Only  the  fleshless  skeletons  that  lie 

In  ghastly  nakedness  and  silence,  cry 
Out  mutely  that  naught  else  to  him  remains. 


THE  QUILL  WORKER 

Plains,  plains,  and  the  prairie  land  which  the  sunlight  floods 

and  fills, 
To  the  west  the  open  country,  southward  the  Cypress  hills; 
Never  a  bit  of  woodland,  never  a  rill  that  flows. 
Only  a  stretch  of  cactus  beds,  and  the  wild,  sweet  prairie  rose; 
Never  a  habitation,  save  where  in  the  far  south-west, 
A  solitary  tepee  lifts  its  solitary  crest, 

Where  Neykia  in  the  doorway,  crouched  in  the  red  sunshine, 
Broiders  her  buckskin  mantle  with  the  quills  of  the  porcupine, 

Neykia,  the  Sioux  chieftain's  daughter,  she  with  the  foot  that 

flies, 
She  with  the  hair  of  midnight,  and  the  wondrous  midnight 

eyes. 
She  with  the  deft,  brown  fingers,  she  with  the  soft,  slow 

smile, 
She  with  the  voice  of  velvet,  and  the  thoughts  that  dream  the 

while, 
"Whence   come   the   vague   to-morrows?     Where   do   the 

yesters  fly  ? 
What  is  beyond  the  border  of  the  prairie  and  the  sky.? 
Does  the  maid  in  the  Land  of  Morning  sit  in  the  red  sunshine, 
Broidering   her   buckskin   mantle   with   the   quills   of  the 

porcupine?  " 

So  Neykia  in  the  westland  wonders  and  works  away, 

Far  from  the  fret  and  the  folly  of  the  "  Land  of  waking  day." 


142  The  Forsaken 

And  many  the  pale-faced  trader  who  stops  at  the  tepee  door 
For  a  smile  from  the  sweet,  shy  worker,  and  a  sigh  when  the 

hour  is  o'er. 
For  they  know  of  a  young  red  hunter  who  oftentimes  has 

stayed 
To  rest  and  smoke  with  her  father,  tho'  his  eyes  were  on  the 

maid; 
And  the  moons  will  not  be  many  ere  she  in  the  red  sunshine 
Will  broider  his  buckskin  mantle  with  the  quills  of  the  por- 
cupine. 

E.  Pauline  Johnson. 


THE  FORSAKEN 

I 
Once  in  the  winter, 
Out  on  a  lake 

In  the  heart  of  the  Northland, 
Far  from  the  fort 
And  far  from  the  hunters, 
A  Chippewa  woman 
With  her  sick  baby, 
Crouched  in  the  last  hours 
Of  a  great  storm. 
Frozen  and  hungry. 
She  fished  through  the  ice 
With  a  line  of  the  twisted 
Bark  of  the  cedar, 
And  a  rabbit-bone  hook 
Polished  and  barbed; 
Fished  with  the  bare  hook 
All  through  the  day, 
Fished  and  caught  nothing; 
While  the  young  chieftain 
Tugged  at  her  breasts. 
Or  slept  in  the  lacings 
Of  the  warm  tikanagan}- 
All  the  lake  surface 
Steamed  with  the  hissing 
>  Tikanagan  is  Opbeway  word  for  Indian  cradle. 


The  Forsaken  143 

Of  millions  of  ice  flakes, 

Hurled  by  the  wind; 

Behind  her  the  sound 

Of  a  lonely  island 

Roared  like  a  fire 

With  the  voice  of  the  storm 

In  the  deep  of  the  cedars. 

Valiant,  unshaken, 

She  took  of  her  own  flesh, 

Baited  the  fish-hook, 

Drew  in  a  gray  trout, 

Drew  in  his  fellow. 

Heaped  them  beside  her 

Dead  in  the  snow. 

Valiant,  unshaken. 

She  faced  the  long  distance, 

Wolf-haunted  and  lonely, 

Sure  of  her  goal 

And  the  life  of  her  dear  one; 

Tramped  for  two  days. 

On  the  third  in  the  morning. 

Saw  the  strong  bulk 

Of  the  fort  by  the  river. 

Saw  the  wood  smoke 

Hang  soft  in  the  spruces, 

Heard  the  keen  yelp 

Of  the  ravenous  huskies^ 

Fighting  for  white  fish : 

Then  she  had  rest. 

II 

Years  and  years  after; 
When  she  was  old  and  withered, 
When  her  son  was  an  old  man 
And  his  children  filled  with  vigour. 
They  came  in  their  northern  tour  on  the  verge  of  winter. 
To  an  island  in  a  lonely  lake. 
There  one  night  they  camped,  and  on  the  morrow 
Gathered  their  kettles  and  birch-bark. 
Their  rabbit-skin  robes  and  their  mink-traps, 
Launched  their  canoes  and  slunk  away  through  the  islands, 
^  Huskies — sledge  dogs. 


144  ^t*^  Forsaken 

Left  her  alone  forever, 

Without  a  word  of  farewell, 

Because  she  was  old  and  useless, 

Like  a  paddle  worn  and  warped. 

Or  a  pole  that  was  splintered. 

Then,  without  a  sigh. 

Valiant,  unshaken, 

She  smoothed  her  dark  locks  under  her  kerchief. 

Composed  her  shawl  in  state. 

Then  folded  her  hands  ridged  with  sinews  and  corded  with 

veins. 
Folded  them  across  her  breasts  spent  with  the  nourishing  of 

children, 
Gazed  at  the  sky  past  the  tops  of  the  cedars. 
Saw  two  spangled  nights  arise  out  of  the  twilight. 
Saw  two  days  go  by  filled  with  the  tranquil  sunshine. 
Saw  without  pain  or  dread,  or  even  a  moment  of  longing: 
Then  on  the  third  great  night  there  came  thronging  and 

thronging 
Millions  of  snowflakes  out  of  a  windless  cloud; 
They  covered  her  close  with  a  beautiful  crystal  shroud, 
Covered  her  deep  and  silent. 
But  in  the  frost  of  the  dawn, 
Up  from  the  life  below, 
Rose  a  column  of  breath 
Through  a  tiny  cleft  in  the  snow. 
Fragile,  delicately  drawn. 
Wavering  with  its  own  weakness, 
In  the  wilderness  a  sign  of  the  spirit, 
Persisting  still  in  the  light  of  the  sun 
Till  day  was  done. 
Then  all  light  was  gathered  up  by  the  hand  of  God  and  hid  in 

His  breast. 
Then  there  was  born  a  silence  deeper  than  silence, 
Then  she  had  rest.^ 

*The  story  is  true.     Told  the  author  by  the  Hudson  Bay  Company's 
factor  at  Nepigon  House. 


The  Half-Breed  Girl  145 


THE  HALF-BREED  GIRL 

She  is  free  of  the  trap  and  the  paddle, 

The  portage  and  the  trail, 
But  something  behind  her  savage  life 

Shines  like  a  fragile  veil. 

Her  dreams  are  undiscovered, 

Shadows  trouble  her  breast. 
When  the  time  for  resting  cometh 

Then  least  is  she  at  rest. 

Oft  in  the  morns  of  winter. 
When  she  visits  the  rabbit  snares, 

An  appearance  floats  in  the  crystal  air 
Beyond  the  balsam  firs. 

Oft  in  the  summer  mornings 
When  she  strips  the  nets  of  fish. 

The  smell  of  the  dripping  net-twine 
Gives  to  her  heart  a  wish. 

But  she  cannot  learn  the  meaning 

Of  the  shadows  in  her  soul. 
The  lights  that  break  and  gather, 

The  clouds  that  part  and  roll. 

The  reek  of  rock-built  cities. 
Where  her  fathers  dwelt  of  yore. 

The  gleam  of  loch  and  shealing. 
The  mist  on  the  moor. 

Frail  traces  of  kindred  kindness. 

Of  feud  by  hill  and  strand. 
The  heritage  of  an  age-long  life 

In  a  legendary  land. 

She  wakes  in  the  stifling  wigwam. 
Where  the  air  is  heavy  and  wild, 

She  fears  for  something  or  nothing 
With  the  heart  of  a  frightened  child. 

K 


146        On  the  Way  to  the  Mission 

She  sees  the  stars  turn  slowly 
Past  the  tangle  of  the  poles, 

Through  the  smoke  of  the  dying  embers, 
Like  the  eyes  of  dead  souls. 

Her  heart  is  shaken  with  longing 
For  the  strange,  still  years. 

For  what  she  knows  and  knows  not, 
For  the  wells  of  ancient  tears. 

A  voice  calls  from  the  rapids, 

Deep,  careless,  and  free, 
A  voice  that  is  larger  than  her  life 

Or  than  her  death  shall  be. 

She  covers  her  face  with  her  blanket, 
Her  fierce  soul  hates  her  breath. 

As  it  cries  with  a  sudden  passion 
For  life  or  death. 


ON  THE  WAY  TO  THE  MISSION 

They  dogged  him  all  one  afternoon 

Through  the  bright  snow, 

Two  white  men  servants  of  greed ; 

He  knew  that  they  were  there. 

But  he  turned  not  his  head; 

He  was  an  Indian  trapper; 

He  planted  his  snow-shoes  firmly. 

He  dragged  the  long  toboggan 

Without  rest. 

The  three  figures  drifted 

Like  shadows  in  the  mind  of  a  seer; 

The  snow-shoes  were  the  whisperers 

On  the  threshold  of  awe ; 

The  toboggan  made  the  sound  of  wings, 

A  wood  pigeon  sloping  to  her  nest. 


On  the  Way  to  the  Mission        147 

The  Indian's  face  was  calm, 

He  strode  with  the  sorrow  of  fore-knowledge, 

But  his  eyes  were  jewels  of  content 

Set  in  circles  of  peace. 

They  would  have  shot  him; 
But  momently  in  the  deep  forest. 
They  saw  something  flit  by  his  side; 
Their  hearts  stopped  with  fear. 

Then  the  moon  rose. 

They  would  have  left  him  to  the  spirit. 

But  they  saw  the  long  toboggan 

Rounded  well  with  furs, 

With  many  a  silver  fox-skin. 

With  the  pelts  of  mink  and  otter, 

They  were  the  servants  of  greed; 

When  the  moon  grew  brighter 

And  the  spruces  were  dark  with  sleet. 

They  shot  him. 

When  he  fell  on  a  shield  of  moonlight 
One  of  his  arms  clung  to  his  burden; 
The  snow  was  not  melted: 
The  spirit  passed  away — 
Then  the  servants  of  greed 
Tore  off  the  cover  to  count  their  gains; 
They  shuddered  away  into  the  shadows, 
Hearing  each  the  loud  heart  of  the  other. 
Silence  was  born. 

There  in  the  tender  moonlight, 

As  sweet  as  thev  were  in  Hfe, 
Glmimered  the  ivory  features 

Of  the  Indian's  wife. 

In  the  manner  of  Montagnai's  women 

Her  hair  was  rolled  with  braid; 
Under  her  waxen  fingers 

A  crucifix  was  laid. 


148  Thunderchild's  Lament 

He  was  drawing  her  down  to  the  mission, 

To  bury  her  there  in  the  spring, 
When  the  blood  root  comes  and  the  windflower 

To  silver  everything. 

But  as  a  gift  of  plunder 

Side  by  side  were  they  laid. 
The  moon  went  on  with  her  setting 

And  covered  them  with  shade. 

Duncan  Campbell  Scott. 


THUNDERCHILD'S  LAMENT 

When  the  years  grew  worse,  and  the  tribe  longed  sore 
For  a  kinsman  bred  to  the  white  man's  lore. 
To  the  mission  school  they  sent  forth  me 
From  the  hunting  life  and  the  skin  tepee. 

In  the  mission  school  eight  years  I  wrought 
Till  my  heart  grew  strange  to  its  boyhood's  thought, 
Then  the  white  men  sent  me  forth  from  their  ways 
To  the  Blackfoot  lodge  and  the  roving  days. 

"  He  tells  of  their  God,"  said  the  chiefs  when  I  spake, 
"  But  naught  of  the  magic  our  foemen  make, 
'Tis  a  Blackfoot  heart,  with  a  white  man's  fear. 
And  all  skill  forgot  that  could  help  him  here." 

For  the  mission  priest  had  bent  my  will 
From  the  art  to  steal  and  the  mind  to  kill, 
Then  out  from  the  life  I  had  learned  sent  me 
To  the  hungry  plain  and  the  dim  tepee. 

When  the  moon  of  March  was  great  and  round. 
No  meat  for  my  father's  teeth  I  found ; 
When  the  moon  of  March  was  curved  and  thin, 
No  meat  for  his  life  could  hunting  win. 

Wide  went  the  track  of  my  snow-shoe  mesh, 
Deep  was  the  white,  and  it  still  fell  fresh 


Thunderchild's  Lament  149 

Far  on  the  foothills^  far  on  the  plain, 

When  I  searched  for  the  elk  and  grouse  in  vain. 

In  the  lodge  lay  my  father,  grim  in  the  smoke, 
His  eyes  pierced  mine  as  the  gray  dawn  broke, 
He  gnawed  on  the  edge  of  the  buffalo  hide. 
And  I  must  be  accurst  if  my  father  died. 

He  spoke  with  wail,  "  In  the  famine  year 

When  my  father  starved  as  I  starve  here, 

Was  my  heart  like  the  squaw's  who  has  fear  to  slay 

'Mongst  the  herds  of  the  white  man  far  away?  " 

From  the  mission  school  they  sent  forth  me 
To  the  gaunt  wild  life  of  the  dark  tepee  ; 
With  the  fear  to  steal,  and  the  dread  to  kill, 
And  the  love  of  Christ  they  had  bent  my  will. 

But  my  father  gnawed  on  the  buffalo  hide; 
Toward  the  sunrise  trod  my  snow-shoe  stride, 
Straight  to  the  white  man's  herd  it  led, 
Till  the  sun  sank  down  at  my  back  in  red. 

Next  dawn  was  bleak  when  I  slew  the  steer, 
And  I  ate  of  the  raw,  and  it  gave  me  cheer; 
So  I  set  my  feet  in  the  track  once  more, 
With  my  father's  life  in  the  meal  I  bore. 

Far  strode  the  herder,  fast  on  my  trail ; 
Noon  was  high  when  I  heard  his  hail; 
I  fled  in  fear,  but  my  feet  moved  slow, 
For  the  load  I  shouldered  sunk  them  low. 

Then  I  heard  no  sound  but  the  creak  and  clack, 
Of  his  snow-shoes  treading  my  snow-shoe  track. 
And  I  saw  never  help  in  plain  or  sky 
Save  that  he  should  die,  or  my  father  die. 

The  mission  priest  had  broke  my  will. 
With  the  curse  on  him  who  blood  would  spill, 
But  my  father  starved  in  the  black  tepee, 
And  the  cry  of  his  starving  shrieked  to  me. 


150  Taapookaa 

The  white  world  reeled  to  its  cloudy  rim, 

The  plain  reeled  red  as  I  knelt  by  him — 

Oh,  the  spot  in  the  snow,  how  it  pulsed  and  grew, 

How  it  cried  from  the  snow-white  up  to  the  blue ! 

For  the  mission  priest  had  sent  forth  me 
To  the  work  and  deeds  of  the  wild  tepee, 
Yet  the  fear  of  God's  strong  curse  fulfilled 
Cried  with  the  blood  that  would  not  be  stilled. 

They  found  me  not  while  the  year  was  green. 
And  the  rose  blew  sweet  where  the  slain  had  been, 
They  found  me  not  when  the  fall-flowers  flare. 
But  the  red  in  the  snow  was  ever  there. 

To  the  jail  I  fled  from  the  safe  tepee, 
And  the  mission  priest  will  send  forth  me, 
A  Blackfoot  soul  cleansed  white  from  stain — 
Yet  never  the  red  spot  fades  from  the  plain. 

It  glares  in  my  eyes  when  sunbeams  fall. 
Through  the  iron  gate  of  my  stone-grey  wall. 
And  I  see,  through  starlight,  foxes  go 
To  track  and  to  taste  of  the  ruddy  snow. 

E.  W.  Thomson. 


TAAPOOKAA 
{A  Huron  Legend) 

The  clouds  roll  over  the  pine  trees. 
Like  waves  that  are  charged  with  ire; 

Golden  and  glory-hued  their  crests, 
Ablaze  with  a  gorgeous  fire. 

The  sun  has  gone  down  in  splendour, 
The  heavens  are  wild  with  flame. 

And  all  the  horizon  is  burning 
With  colours  that  have  no  name. 

And  over  the  mighty  forests 
The  mystical  hues  are  spread. 


Taapookaa  i 5 1 

As  calm  as  the  smiles  of  angels, 
As  still  as  the  peaceful  dead. 

And  the  isle  serene  and  thoughtful, 

And  the  river  deep  in  dreams, 
And  the  purple  cHff  in  the  distance, 

Are  robed  with  the  glory-gleams. 

Until  earth  seems  a  sacred  temple, 

Where  spirits  of  light  have  trod, 
Where  man  should  not  dare  to  enter; 

Too  sacred  for  aught  but  Godi 

Calm  eve  over  lovely  Huron, 

Calm  eve  in  the  sombre  wild. 
And  over  the  rude  bark  wigwam 

Of  the  swarthy  forest  child. 

There's  a  gathering  of  the  red  men, 
Of  their  youths  and  maidens  fair, 

Of  the  mothers  of  braves  and  heroes. 
And  the  feast  is  spreading  there. 

From  the  banks  of  the  Cadaraiqui, 

From  Niagara's  solitudes, 
Where  the  song  of  the  Water-Spirit 

Rolled  vast  through  the  primal  woods; 

From  Superior's  rocky  defiles. 

Her  grand  and  rugged  shores, 
From  Otuwa  and  blue-waved  Erie, 

Came  the  Chiefs  and  Sagamores, 

Bringing  gifts  from  the  distant  lodges, 

Rare  gifts  for  the  lovely  bride — 
Taapookaa,  the  fairest  maiden 

That  ever  for  true  love  sighed. 

Taapookaa,  the  loved,  the  lovely. 

No  beauty  was  there  like  hers. 
And  through  all  the  tribes  of  the  forest 

The  braves  were  her  worshippers. 


152  Taapookaa 

But  where  is  her  young  Sioux  lover, 
The  pride  of  her  trusting  heart? 

The  brave  that  her  love  has  chosen, 
Whose  life  is  of  hers  a  part. 

Away  from  the  bridal  revels, 
Away  from  the  feast  he  roves, 

Alone  over  lonely  rivers, 
Alone  in  the  lonely  groves ! 

Taapookaa  must  wed  another 

The  chief  of  a  neighbouring  tribe; 

Neither  force  nor  friends  can  save  her, 
Neither  tears  nor  prayer  can  bribe ! 

For  this  have  the  chieftains  gathered, 
Great  chiefs  from  the  wilds  afar; 

They  have  prayed  to  Manitou  freely. 
And  saluted  the  bridal  star. 

All  things  for  the  feast  are  ready, 

All  ripe  for  the  revelry, 
And  the  bridegroom-chief  is  waiting — 

But  Taapookaa,  where  is  she? 

Like  the  zephyr  that  bends  the  flowers, 
That  bendeth  but  may  not  break. 

So  lightly  her  footstep  treadeth 
The  chff  o'er  the  calmy  lake. 

The  stars  are  all  weeping  for  her, 
The  moon  has  a  look  forlorn, 

For  the  beautiful  maid  all  blushes, 
All  blushes,  and  truth,  and  scorn ! 

The  breeze  has  a  mournful  cadence, 
A  sigh  for  the  fairest  fair; 

It  cooleth  her  maiden  blushes. 
And  fingers  her  jetty  hair. 

Like  a  tragic  queen  she  standeth 
On  the  jagged  cliff  alone; 


The  Legend  of  Qu'Apelle  Valley      153 

All  nature  has  paused  to  shudder, 
And  the  stricken  forests  moan. 

A  prayer  for  her  young  Sioux  lover, 

That  wanders  the  wilds  forlorn, 
And  she  leaps  from  the  cliff,  all  daring. 

And  maidenly  truth,  and  scorn. 

At  night  when  the  stars  are  shining, 

And  the  moon,  with  silvery  hue, 
Illumines  the  lake  with  radiance, 

Is  seen  a  white  canoe; 

Two  shadowy  forms  within  it, 

Two  faces  that  seem  to  smile — 
The  maid  and  her  brave  Sioux  lover 

Returned  from  the  Spirit  Isle. 

Charles  Sangster. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  QU'APELLE  VALLEY 

I  AM  the  one  who  loved  her  as  my  Ufe, 

Had  watched  her  grow  to  sweet  young  womanhood ; 
Won  the  dear  privilege  to  call  her  wife, 

And  found  the  world,  because  of  her,  was  good. 

I  am  the  one  who  heard  the  spirit  voice. 
Of  which  the  pale-face  settlers  love  to  tell; 

From  whose  strange  story  they  have  made  their  choice 
Of  naming  this  fair  valley  the  "  Qu'Apelle." 

She  had  said  fondly  in  my  eager  ear: 

"  When  Indian  summer  smiles  with  dusky  lip, 
Come  to  the  lakes,  I  will  be  first  to  hear 

The  welcome  music  of  thy  paddle  dip. 
I  will  be  first  to  lay  in  thine  my  hand. 

To  whisper  words  of  greeting  on  the  shore; 
And  when  thou  would'st  return  to  thine  own  land, 

I'll  go  with  thee,  thy  wife  for  evermore." 


154     T"he  Legend  of  Qu'Apelle  Valley 

Not  yet  a  leaf  had  fallen,  nor  a  tone 

Of  frost  upon  the  plain,  ere  I  set  forth. 
Impatient  to  possess  her  as  my  own — 

This  queen  of  all  the  women  of  the  North. 
I  rested  not  at  even  or  at  dawn, 

But  journeyed  all  the  dark  and  daylight  through — 
Until  I  reached  the  lakes,  and  hurrying  on, 

I  launched  upon  their  bosom  my  canoe. 

Of  sleep  and  hunger  then  I  took  no  heed. 

But  hastened  o'er  these  leagues  of  waterways; 
But  my  hot  heart  outstripped  my  paddle's  speed 

And  waited  not  for  distance  or  for  days, 
But  flew  before  me  swifter  than  the  blade 

Of  magic  paddle  ever  cleaved  the  lake. 
Eager  to  lay  its  love  before  the  maid, 

And  watch  the  love-light  in  her  eyes  awake. 

So  the  long  days  went  slowly  drifting  past; 

It  seemed  that  half  my  life  must  interv^ene 
Before  the  morrow,  when  I  said  at  last — 

"  One  more  day's  journey  and  I  win  my  queen !  " 
I  rested  then,  and  drifted,  dreamed  the  more 

Of  all  the  happiness  I  was  to  claim — 
When  suddenly  from  out  the  shadowed  shore 

I  heard  a  voice  speak  tenderly  my  name. 

"  Who  calls?  "  I  answered;  no  reply;  and  long 

I  stilled  my  paddle  blade  and  listened.    Then 
Above  the  night-wind's  melancholy  song 

I  heard  distinctly  that  strange  voice  again — 
A  woman's  voice,  that  through  the  twilight  came 

Like  to  a  soul  unborn — a  song  unsung. 
I  leaned  and  listened — Yes,  she  spake  my  name. 

And  then  I  answered  in  the  quaint  French  tongue, 
"  Qu'Apelle?     Qu'Apelle?  "     No  answer,  and  the  night 

Seemed  stiller  for  the  sound,  till  round  me  fell 
The  far-off  echoes  from  the  far-off  height — 

"Qu'Apelle?"    my    voice    came    back,    "Qu'Apelle? 
Qu'Apelle?" 
This — and  no  more;  I  called  aloud  until 

I  shuddered  as  the  gloom  of  night  increased, 


The  Legend  of  Qu'Apelle  Valley      155 

And  like  a  pallid  spectre  wan  and  chill 
The  moon  rose  in  silence  from  the  East. 

I  dare  not  linger  on  the  moment  when 

My  boat  I  beached  beside  her  tepee  door; 
I  heard  the  wail  of  women  and  of  men, 

I  saw  the  death-fires  lighted  on  the  shore. 
No  language  tells  the  torture  or  the  pain, 

The  bitterness  that  flooded  all  my  life, 
When  I  was  led  to  look  on  her  again, 

That  queen  of  women  pledged  to  be  my  wife. 

To  look  upon  the  beauty  of  her  face. 

The  still  closed  eyes,  the  lips  that  knew  no  breath; 
To  look  to  learn — to  realise  my  place 

Had  been  usurped  by  my  one  rival — Death. 
A  storm  of  wrecking  sorrow  beat  and  broke 

About  my  heart,  and  life  shut  out  its  light 
Till  through  my  anguish  some  one  gently  spoke, 

And  said,  "  twice  did  she  call  for  thee  last  night." 
I  started  up — and  bending  o'er  my  dead, 

Asked  when  did  her  sweet  lips  in  silence  cease. 
"  She  called  thy  name — then  passed  away,"  they  said, 

"  Just  on  the  hour  whereat  the  moon  arose." 
Among  the  lonely  lakes  I  go  no  more. 

For  she  who  made  their  beauty  is  not  there; 
The  pale  face  loves  his  tepee  on  the  shore 

And  says  the  vale  is  fairest  of  the  fair. 

Full  many  years  have  vanished  since,  but  still 

The  voyageurs  beside  the  camp  fire  tell 
How,  when  the  moon  rise  tips  the  distant  hill, 

They  hear  strange  voices  through  the  silence  swell. 
The  pale  face  loves  the  haunted  lakes,  they  say, 

And  journeys  far  to  watch  their  beauty  spread 
Before  his  vision;  but  to  me  the  day, 

The  night,  the  hour,  the  seasons  all  are  dead. 
I  listen  heartsick,  while  the  hunters  tell 
Why  white  men  named  the  valley  the  Qu'Apelle. 

E.  Pauline  Johnson. 


156        The  Passing  of  Clote-Scarp 


THE  PASSING  OF  CLOTE-SCARP  (OR  GLOOSCAP)i 

Hark  !   through  the  twilight  stillness, 

Across  the  sleeping  lake, 
What  notes  of  mournful  cadence 

The  charmed  stillness  break! 

Is  it  a  wailing  spirit 

That  lingers  on  its  flight, 
Or  voice  of  human  sorrow 

That  echoes  through  the  night? 

Nay,  not  from  man  or  spirit 

Does  that  weird  music  flow; 
'Tis  the  bird  that  waits  for  Clote-Scarp, 

As  the  ages  come  and  go. 


Still  in  the  Micmac  lodges 

Is  the  old  story  told 
How  Clote-Scarp  passed,  and  ended 

Acadia's  age  of  gold; 

In  the  primeval  forests. 

In  the  happy  old  days, 
The  men  and  beasts  lived  peaceful 

Among  the  woodland  ways. 

The  forest  knew  no  spoiler; 

No  timid  beast  or  bird 
Feared  fang  or  spear  or  arrow; 

No  cry  of  pain  was  heard; 

For  all  loved  gentle  Clote-Scarp, 
And  Clote-Scarp  loved  them  all. 

And  men  and  beasts  and  fishes 
Obeyed  his  welcome  call, 

*  Clote-Scarp  or  Glooscap  is  the  Micmac  Hiawatha,  with  something  of 
the  western  Balder  and  Hiawatha  combined. 


The  Passing  of  Clote-Scarp         157 

The  birds  came  circling  round  him 

With  carols  gay  and  sweet; 
The  little  wilding  blossoms 

Sprang  smiling  at  his  feet. 

All  spake  one  simple  language, 

And  Clote-Scarp  understood. 
And  in  his  tones  of  music, 

Taught  them  that  love  was  good ! 

But  in  the  course  of  ages 

An  alien  spirit  woke, 
And  men  and  woodland  creatures 

Their  peaceful  compact  broke. 

Then  through  the  gloomy  forest 

The  hunter  tracked  his  prey; 
The  bear  and  wolf  went  roaming 

To  ravage  and  to  slay; 

Through  the  long  reeds  and  grasses 

Stole  out  the  slimy  snake ; 
The  hawk  pounced  on  the  nestling, 

Close  cowering  in  the  brake; 

The  beaver  built  his  stronghold 

Beneath  the  river's  flow; 
The  partridge  sought  the  covert 

Where  beeches  closest  grow. 

In  mute  and  trembling  terror 

Each  timid  creature  fled, 
To  seek  the  safest  refuge 

And  hide  its  hunted  head! 

In  sorrow  and  in  anger 

The  gentle  Clote-Scarp  spake : 
"  My  soul  can  bear  no  longer 

The  havoc  that  ye  make ! 

"  Ye  will  not  heed  my  bidding; 

I  cannot  stay  your  strife, 
And  so  I  needs  must  leave  you 

Till  love  renew  your  life." 


158         The  Passing  of  Clote-Scarp 

Then  by  the  great  wide  water 
He  made  a  parting  feast; 

The  men  refused  his  bidding. 
But  there  came  bird  and  beast. 

There  came  the  bear  and  walrus, 
The  wolf  with  bristling  crest; 

There  came  the  busy  beaver, 
The  deer  with  bounding  breast; 

There  came  the  mink  and  otter, 
The  seal  with  wistful  eves: 

The  birds  in  countless  numbers, 
With  sad  imploring  cries ! 

But  when  the  feast  was  over 
He  launched  his  bark  canoe; 

The  wistful  creatures  watched  him 
Swift  gliding  from  their  view. 

They  heard  his  far-off  singing 
Through  the  fast-falling  night, 

Till  on  the  dim  horizon 

He  vanished  from  their  sight ! 

And  then  a  wail  of  sorrow 
Went  up  from  one  and  all, 

Then  echoed  through  the  twilight 
The  loon's  long  mournful  call. 

But  all  in  vain  the  wailing. 
In  vain  that  wistful  cry. 

Alone,  through  deepening  shadows. 
The  echoes  made  reply! 

Still,  through  the  twilight  echoes 
That  cadence  wild  and  shrill. 

But  on  a  blessed  island 
Clote-Scarp  is  waiting  still. 

No  darkness,  cold,  or  tempest 
Comes  near  that  happy  spot; 

It  fears  no  touch  of  winter. 
For  winter's  self  is  not. 


Dawn  159 

And  there  waits  gentle  Clote-Scarp 

Till  happier  days  shall  fall, 
Till  strife  be  fled  for  ever, 

And  Love  be  Lord  of  all ! 

Agnes  Maude  Machar. 


FROM  "  SONG  WAVES  " 

Pure  lily,  open  on  the  breast 
Of  toiling  waters'  much  unrest. 

Thy  simple  soul  mounts  up  in  worship 
Like  ecstasy  of  a  spirit  blest ! 

Thy  wealth  of  ivory  and  gold, 

All  that  thou  hast,  thou  dost  unfold ! 

Fixed  in  the  unseen  thy  life  breathes  upward 
A  heavenly  essence  from  out  earth's  mould. 

Now  comes  the  chill  and  dark  of  night. 
Folds  up  thy  precious  gold  and  white ! 

Thy  casket  sinks  within  veiled  bosom, 
To  ope  the  richer  on  to-morrow's  light. 

Theodore  H.  Rand. 


DAWN 

The  night  had  brooded  long,  the  air  was  chill. 
Across  the  open  fields  the  frost  bit  deep, 
The  restless,  formless  mists,  that  seemed  to  creep 
Like  ghostly  wraiths,  had  swallowed  up  the  hill; 
The  sombre  pines  had  ceased  their  plaint  of  ill 
But  yet  uplifted  pleading  arms ;  the  sheep 
And  stiff-necked  kine  were  huddled  half  asleep. 
And  all  the  forest  hung  inert  and  still; 

When  on  the  silence  fell  a  tenser  hush, 
A  film  of  greyness  smote  the  dark  and  spread. 
And  slowly  in  the  east  a  trembling  flush 
Shot  upward,  till  the  sullen  mists,  withdrawn. 
Showed  all  the  vanquished  shadows  fled, 
And  myriad  heralds  cried,  "  The  Dawn!  The  Dawn!  " 

Helena  Coleman. 


i6o  The  Sunflowers 


AT  WAKING 

When  I  shall  go  to  sleep  and  wake  again 
At  dawning  in  another  world  than  this. 
What  will  atone  to  me  for  all  I  miss  ? 

The  light  melodious  footsteps  of  the  rain, 

The  press  of  leaves  against  my  window  pane, 
The  sunset  wistfulness  and  morning  bliss, 
The  moon's  enchantment  and  the  twilight  kiss 

Of  winds  that  wander  with  me  through  the  lane. 

Will  not  my  soul  remember  evermore 

The  earthly  winter's  hunger  for  the  spring, 
The  wet  sweet  cheek  of  April,  and  the  rush 
Of  roses  through  the  summer's  open  door; 
The  feelings  that  the  scented  woodlands  bring 
At  evening  with  the  singing  of  the  thrush? 


THE  SUNFLOWERS 

When  lamps  are  out  and  voices  fled, 
And  moonlight  floods  the  earth  like  rain, 
I  steal  outside  and  cross  the  lane 

And  stand  beside  the  sunflower  bed; 

Each  blind,  unopened  face  is  turned 

To  where  the  western  glories  burned. 
As  though  the  sun  might  come  again 

With  some  last  word  he  left  unsaid. 

When  dawn  with  slender  shining  hand 
Inscribes  a  message  on  the  wall, 
I  follow  at  the  silent  call 

To  where  my  tall  sun-lovers  stand. 

Their  wistful  heads  are  lifted  high 

Toward  the  flaming  eastern  sky. 
As  though  some  voice  had  turned  them  all^ 

Some  secret  voice  of  strong  command. 


Origins  i6i 

Ah,  should  I  from  the  windowed  height 

Keep  vigil  in  the  room  above 

And  see  them  lightly,  surely  move 
Through  the  chill  stretches  of  the  night, 
Would  not  the  heart  within  me  bum. 
As  loyally  I  watched  them  turn. 

With  sweet  undoubting  faith  and  love 
From  vanished  light  to  dawning  light? 

Ethelw^yn  Wetherald. 


ORIGINS 

Out  of  the  dreams  that  heap 
The  hollow  hand  of  sleep, 
Out  of  the  dark  sublime. 
The  echoing  deeps  of  time, 
From  the  averted  Face 
Beyond  the  bournes  of  space, 
Into  the  sudden  sun 
We  journey,  one  by  one. 
Out  of  the  hidden  shade 
Wherein  desire  is  made. 
Out  of  the  pregnant  stir 
Where  death  and  life  confer, 
The  dark  and  mystic  heat 
Where  soul  and  matter  meet, 
The  enigmatic  will, 
We  start,  and  then  are  still. 

Inexorably  decreed 
By  the  ancestral  deed. 
The  puppets  of  our  sires, 
We  work  out  bUnd  desires, 
And  for  our  sons  ordain 
The  blessing  or  the  bane. 
In  ignorance  we  stand 
With  fate  on  either  hand, 
And  question  stars  and  earth 
Of  life,  and  death,  and  birth. 


I  62  The  Prospector 

With  wonder  in  our  eyes 
We  scan  the  kindred  skies, 
While  through  the  common  grass 
Our  atoms  mix  and  pass. 
We  feel  the  sap  go  free 
When  spring  comes  to  the  tree ; 
And  in  our  blood  is  stirred 
What  warms  the  brooding  bird. 

The  vital  fire  we  breathe 
That  bird  and  blade  bequeathe. 
And  strength  of  native  clay- 
In  our  full  veins  hath  sway. 
But  in  the  urge  intense 
And  fellowship  of  sense, 
Suddenly  comes  a  word 
In  other  ages  heard ; 
On  a  great  wind  our  souls 
Are  borne  to  unknown  goals, 
And  past  the  bourne  of  space 
To  the  unaverted  Face. 

C.  G.  D.  Roberts. 


THE  PROSPECTOR 

Lured  by  the  golden  glamour  of  the  West, 
He  crossed  the  pathless  plains  and  scaled  the  bold 
Titanic  forms  that,  rising  fold  on  fold, 
Touch  heaven's  blue;  and  toiling,  strove  to  wrest 
From  nature's  rugged  and  reluctant  breast 
The  treasure  she  had  hidden  there  of  old — 
The  treasure  of  her  hoarded  gold — 
Seductive  hope  of  many  a  hapless  quest! 

For  this  he  left  all  other  hopes  behind. 

And  gave  his  manhood's  prime  and  powers  away. 

Content  to  be  forgotten  of  his  kind — 

Yet  all  the  while  within  himself  there  lay 

The  unregarded  treasure  of  the  mind, 

Deep-buried,  priceless,  wasting  day  by  day. 

Helena  Coleman. 


A  Good  Woman  163 


SUNRISE  ON  THE  OCEAN 

The  sails  are  idly  hanging  from  the  spars; 

The  dreaming  waves  are  crooning  lullabies; 

While  mounting  towards  the  zenith  slowly  rise    ' 
With  noiseless  tread  the  retiring  sentinel  stars, 
Whose  watch  is  past.    The  gate  of  Orient  jars, 

And  lo !  the  golden  sun  in  heavenly  guise, 

Divinely  glorious  sight  for  angel  eyes — 
Comes  forth  full-robed  to  meet  at  heaven's  bars 
Her  bridegroom,  Ocean,  with  his  wealth  of  ships — 

A  galaxy  of  sails,  an  endless  fleet — 
With  which  he  greets  her;  and  her  flaming  lips 

Kiss  every  passing  wave  which  shoreward  beat; 
And  from  the  foaming  crystal  cup  she  sips 

The  life-wine  of  the  flood,  and  calls  it  sweet. 

Mrs,  S.  E.  Sherwood  Faulkner. 


A  GOOD  WOMAN 

Her  eyes  are  the  windows  of  a  soul 
Where  only  the  white  thoughts  spring, 

And  they  look  as  the  eyes  of  the  angels  look, 
For  the  good  in  everything. 

Her  lips  can  whisper  the  tenderest  words 

That  weary  and  worn  can  hear, 
Can  tell  of  the  dawn  of  a  better  morn 

Till  only  the  cowards  fear. 

Her  hands  can  lift  up  the  fallen  one 

From  an  overthrow  complete. 
Can  take  a  soul  from  the  mire  of  sin 

And  lead  it  to  Christ's  dear  feet. 

And  she  can  walk  wherever  she  will — 

She  walketh  never  alone. 
The  work  she  does  is  the  Master's  work, 

And  God  guards  well  His  own. 

Jean  Blewett. 


164  A  Sister  of  Charity 


A  SISTER  OF  CHARITY 

She  made  a  nunnery  of  her  life, 
Plain  duties  hedged  it  round, 

No  echoes  of  the  outer  strife 

Could  reach  its  hallowed  ground. 

Her  rule  was  simple  as  her  creed, 

She  tried  to  do  each  day 
Some  act  of  kindness  that  might  speed 

A  sad  soul  on  its  way. 

She  had  no  wealth,  and  yet  she  made 

So  many  rich  at  heart; 
Her  lot  was  hidden,  yet  she  played 

No  inconspicuous  part. 

Some  wondered  men  had  passed  her  by, 
Some  said  she  would  not  wed, 

I  think  the  secret  truth  must  lie 
Long  buried  with  the  dead. 

That  cheery  smile,  that  gentle  touch, 
That  heart  so  free  from  stain. 

Could  have  no  other  source  but  such 
As  lies  in  conquered  pain. 

All  living  creatures  loved  her  well. 
And  blessed  the  ground  she  trod; 

The  pencillings  on  her  Bible  tell 
Her  communing  with  God. 


^o 


And  when  the  call  came  suddenly. 

And  sleep  preceded  death, 
There  was  no  struggle  we  could  see. 

No  hard  and  laboured  breath. 

Gently  as  dawn  the  end  drew  nigh; 

Her  life  had  been  so  sweet, 
I  think  she  did  not  need  to  die 

To  reach  the  Master's  feet. 

F.  G.  Scott. 


Swallow  Song  165 


BE  MERCIFUL  TO  THE  HORSE 

Do  the  beasts  of  burden  that  strive  and  groan 
And  writhe  and  crouch  'neath  the  pitiless  rod — 

Are  they  never  allowed  to  make  their  moan 
And  lay  their  wrongs  at  the  feet  of  God  ? 

All  day  I've  watched  from  my  window  high 
The  infamous  street  where  the  horsewhips  hiss, 

And  I  asked  myself,  will  the  day  e'er  come 
When  man  will  answer  for  all  of  this  ? 

For  I  saw  a  horse  with  starting  eyes, 
With  straining  nerves  and  a  throbbing  flank; 

I  saw  him  strive  till  his  strength  gave  out 
And  he  on  the  murderous  pavement  sank; 

I  heard  a  curse  from  a  lower  beast : 
I  heard  his  whip  lash  crack  like  shot: 

I  watched  and  heard  till  my  heart  was  sore, 
And  all  the  blood  in  my  veins  was  hot. 

Thou  wretch  with  the  whip,  remember  this, 
Remember,  thou  knight  of  the  curse  and  rod: 

The  voiceless  cry  of  a  stricken  beast 
Is  heard  by  the  pitying  ears  of  God. 

R.  K.  Kerningham. 


SWALLOW  SONG 

Oh,  little  hearts,  beat  home,  beat  home, 

Here  is  no  place  to  rest. 
Night  darkens  on  the  falling  foam 

And  on  the  fading  west. 
Oh,  little  wings,  beat  home,  beat  home. 

Love  may  no  longer  roam. 

0  love  has  touched  the  fields  of  wheat, 
And  love  has  crowned  the  com, 


t66  The  Shepherd  Boy 

And  we  must  follow  love's  white  feet 

Thro'  all  the  ways  of  mom; 
Through  all  the  silver  roads  of  air 

We  pass,  and  have  no  care. 

The  silver  roads  of  love  are  wide, 

0  winds  that  blow,  0  stars  that  guide, 

Sweet  are  the  ways  that  love  has  trod 
Thro'  the  clear  skies  that  lead  to  God; 

But  in  the  cliff-grass  love  builds  deep 
A  place  where  wandering  wings  may  sleep. 


THE  SHEPHERD  BOY 

When  the  red  moon  hangs  over  the  fold 
And  the  cypress  shadow  is  rimmed  with  gold, 

0  little  sheep,  I  have  laid  me  low, 
My  face  against  the  old  earth's  face. 
Where  one  by  one  the  white  moths  go 
And  the  brown  bee  has  his  sleeping-place. 
And  then  I  have  whispered,  "  Mother,  hear, 
For  the  owls  are  awake  and  the  night  is  near, 
And  whether  I  lay  me  near  or  far, 

No  lip  shall  kiss  me, 

No  eye  shall  miss  me, 

Saving  the  eye  of  a  cold  white  star." 

And  the  old  brown  woman  answers  mild, 
"  Rest  you  safe  on  my  heart,  0  child. 
Many  a  shepherd,  many  a  king, 

1  fold  them  safe  from  their  sorrowing. 
Gwenever's  heart  is  bound  with  dust, 
Tristram  dreams  of  the  dappled  doe. 
But  the  bugle  moulders,  the  blade  is  rust. 
Stilled  are  the  trumpets  of  Jericho, 

And  the  tired  men  sleep  by  the  walls  of  Troy. 

Little  and  lonely. 

Knowing  me  only. 

Shall  I  not  comfort  you,  shepherd  boy?  " 


The  Immortal  167 

When  the  wind  wakes  in  the  apple  tree 

And  the  shy  hare  feeds  on  the  wild  fern  stem, 

I  say  my  prayers  to  the  Trinity, 

The  prayers  that  are  three  and  the  charms  that  are  seven 

To  the  angels  guarding  the  towers  of  heaven, 

And  I  lay  my  head  on  her  raiment's  hem, 

Where  the  young  grass  darkens  the  strawberry  star. 

Where  the  iris  buds  and  the  bellworts  are. 

All  night  I  hear  her  breath  go  by, 

Under  the  arch  of  the  empty  sky, 

All  night  her  heart  beats  under  my  head, 

And  I  lie  as  still  as  the  ancient  dead, 

Warm  as  the  young  lambs  there  with  the  sheep. 

I  and  no  other, 

Close  to  my  mother, 

Fold  my  hands  in  her  hands  and  sleep. 


THE  IMMORTAL 

Beauty  is  still  immortal  in  our  eyes. 

When  sways  no  more  the  spirit-haunted  reed. 

When  the  wild  grape  shall  build 

No  more  her  canopies, 

When  blows  no  more  the  moon-grey  thistle  seed. 

When  the  last  bell  has  lulled  the  white  flocks  home, 

When  the  last  eve  has  stilled 

The  wandering  wind  and  touched  the  dying  foam. 

When  the  last  moon  bums  low,  and  spark  by  spark 

The  little  worlds  die  out  along  the  dark. 

Beauty  that  rosed  the  moth-wing,  touched  the  land 
With  clover  horns  and  delicate  faint  flowers, 
Beauty  that  bade  the  showers 
Beat  on  the  violet's  face. 

Shall  hold  the  eternal  heavens  within  their  place 
And  hear  new  stars  come  singing  from  God's  hand. 

Marjorie  L.  C.  Pickthall. 


AUSTRALIA  AND   NEW  ZEALAND 


AUSTRALIA  AND  NEW  ZEALAND 


THE  DOMINION,  1883 

Oh,  fair  Ideal,  unto  whom 
Through  days  of  doubt  and  nights  of  gloom, 
Brave  hearts  have  clung,  while  lips  of  scorn 

Made  mock  of  thee  as  but  a  dream — 
Already  on  the  heights  of  morn 
We  see  thy  golden  sandals  gleam, 
And,  glimmering  through  the  clouds  that  wrap  thee  yet, 
The  seven  stars  that  are  thy  coronet. 

Why  tarriest  thou  'twixt  earth  and  heaven  ? 
Go  forth  to  meet  her,  sisters  seven ! 
'Tis  but  your  welcome  she  awaits 

Ere,  casting  off  the  veil  of  cloud, 
The  bodied  Hope  of  blending  States, 
She  stands  revealed,  imperial,  proud; 
As  from  your  salutation  sprung  full-grown, 
With  green  for  raiment  and  with  gold  for  zone. 

From  where  beneath  unclouded  skies 
Thy  peerless  haven  glittering  lies ; 

From  where  o'er  peasant-pastures  rove 

The  flocks  from  which  thy  greatness  sprang; 
From  vine-clad  slope  and  orange  grove : 

From  "  grave  mute  wood  "  the  Minstrel  sang, 
From  Alpine  peaks  aglow  with  flush  of  mom. 
Go  forth  to  meet  her,  thou,  the  eldest  bom. 

From  where,  reverberant  at  thy  feet. 
The  billows  of  two  oceans  meet; 

From  where  the  rocks  thy  treasures  hide; 

From  mart  and  wharf,  and  harbour  mouth; 
From  where  the  city  of  thy  pride 
Ennobles  all  the  teeming  South — 
To  meet  her,  there  with  loftiest  zeal  inflamed, 
Go  forth,  Victoria,  queen  and  queenly  named. 

171 


172  The  Dominion 

And  thou,  the  youngest,  yet  most  fair, 
First  to  discern,  and  first  to  dare; 
Whose  lips  sun-smitten  earhest  spoke 
The  herald-words  of  coming  good, 
And  with  their  clarion  summons  broke 
The  slumber  of  the  sisterhood — 
Foremost  of  all  thy  peers  press  on  to  greet 
Her  advent,  strewing  flowers  before  her  feet. 

And  thou,  around  whose  brow  benign 
Vine-leaf  and  olive  intertwine; 
Upon  whose  victories  the  Star 

Of  Peace  looks  down  with  no  rebuke, 
The  weapons  of  whose  warfare  are 

The  ploughshare  and  the  pruning  hook — 
Take  with  thee  gifts  of  com,  and  wine,  and  oil, 
To  greet  thy  liege  with  homage  of  the  soil. 

Thou,  too,  whom  last  the  morning  beams 
Wake  from  thy  sleep  by  peaceful  streams, 
Slow  westering  to  the  Indian  main — 

Thou,  too,  beneath  thy  later  sun 
Conspire  with  them  in  glad  refrain 
Of  welcome  to  the  coming  one, 
And  from  thy  fragrant  forests  tribute  bring 
Of  grateful  incense  for  thine  offering. 

And  thou,  Pomona  of  the  south. 
Ruddy  of  cheek  and  ripe  of  mouth, 
Who  from  thy  couch  of  orchard  bloom 
With  fearless  foot  are  wont  to  stray 
By  mountain  lakes,  or  in  the  gloom 
Of  forest  depths  unknown  of  day — 
Be  thy  shrill  greetings  borne  upon  the  breeze 
Above  the  thunder  of  thy  girdling  seas. 

Nor  thou  delay,  who  dwell'st  apart, 
To  join  thy  peers  with  gladsome  heart — 
Whether  the  summons  thee  o'er  take 

On  icy  steep  or  fruitful  plain. 
Or  where  thy  craggy  bulwarks  break 
The  onslaught  of  the  warring  main, 


Christmas  Creek  173 

Or  find  thee  couched  within  some  ferny  lair, 
Flax-flower  and  hyacinth  mingling  with  thy  hair. 

Bind  ye  the  sevenfold  cord  apace; 
Weave  ye  the  sevenfold  wreath  to  grace 
The  brow  of  her  whose  avatar 

The  mighty  mother  waits  to  bless; 
In  sevenfold  choir  be  borne  afar 
The  music  of  your  joyfulness. 
Till  o'er  the  world's  disquiet  your  song  prevail — 
Australia  Foederata!    Hail!    All  hail! 

Brunton  Stephens. 


CHRISTMAS  CREEK 

Phantom  streams  were  in  the  distance — mocking  lights  of 

lake  and  pool — 
Ghosts  of  trees  of  soft  green  lustre — groves  of  shadows  deep 

and  cool ! 
Yea,  some  devil  ran  before  them  changing  skies  of  brass  to 

blue, 
Setting  bloom  where  curse  is  planted,  where  a  grass  blade 

never  grew. 
Six  there  were,  and  high  above  them  glared  a  wild  and  wizened 

sun. 
Ninety  leagues  from  where  the  waters  of  the  singing  valleys 

run. 
There  before  them,  there  behind  them,  was  the  great,  stark, 

stubborn  plain, 
Where  the  dry  winds  hiss  for  ever,  and  the  blind  earth  moans 

for  rain ! 
Ringed  about  by  tracks  of  furnace,  ninety  leagues   from 

stream  and  tree, 
Six  there  were  with  wasted  faces,  working  northward  to  the 

seal 

•  •  •  •  •  •  , 

Ah,  the  bitter,  hopeless  desert!    Here  these  broken  human 

wrecks 
Trod  the  wilds,  where  sand  of  fire  is  with  the  spiteful  spinifex. 


174  Christmas  Creek 

Toiled  through  spheres  that  no  bird  knows  of,  where  with 

fiery  emphasis 
Hell  hath  stamped  its  awful  mind-mark  deep  on  everything 

that  is ! 
Toiled  and  thirsted,  strove  and  suffered!    This  was  where 

December's  breath 
As  a  wind  of  smiting  flame  is  on  weird,  haggard  wastes  of 

death ! 
This  was  where  a  withered  moon  is,  and  the  gleam  of  weak 

wan  star. 
And  a  thunder  full  of  menace  sends  its  mighty  voices  far! 
This  was  where  black  execrations,  from  some  dark  tribunal 

hurled, 
Set  the  brand  of  curse  on  all  things  in  the  morning  of  the 

world ! 


One  man  yielded — then  another — then  a  lad  of  nineteen 

years 
Reeled  and  fell, — with  English  rivers  singing  softly  in  his 

ears, 
English  grasses  started  round  liim — then  the  grace  of  Sussex 

Lea 
Came  and  touched  him  with  the  beauty  of  a  green  land  by 

the  sea! 
Old  world  faces  thronged  about  him — old  world  voices  spoke 

to  him; 
But  his  speech  was  like  a  whisper,  and  his  eyes  were  very  dim. 
In  a  dream  of  golden  evening,  beaming  on  a  quiet  strand, 
Lay  the  stranger  till  a  bright  One  came  and  took  him  by  the 

hand. 
England  vanished,  died  the  voices!    but  he  heard  a  holier 

tone, 
And  an  angel   that  we  know  not   led  him  to   the   lands 

unknown ! 


Six  there  were,  but  three  were  taken!    three  were  left  to 

struggle  still; 
But  against  the  red  horizon  flamed  a  horn  of  brindled  hill ! 
But  beyond  the  northern  skyline,  past  a  wall  of  steep  austere, 
Lay  the  land  of  light  and  coolness  in  an  April-coloured  year ! 


The  Hut  by  the  Black  Swamp      175 

"Courage,  brothers!"  cried  the  leader,  "On  the  slope  of 

yonder  peak 
There  are  tracts  of  herb  and  shadow,  and  the  channels  of  the 

creek!" 
So  they  made  one  last  great  effort — haled  their  breasts  through 

brake  and  briar — 
Set  their  feet  on  spurs  of  furnace — grappled  spikes  and  drags 

of  fire — 
Fought  the  stubborn  mountain  forces,  smote  down  naked, 

natural  powers, 
Till  they  gazed  from  thrones  of  Morning  on  a  sphere  of 
streams  and  flowers. 


Out  behind  them  was  the  desert,  glaring  like  a  sea  of  brass ! 
Here  before  them   were  the  valleys,   fair  with  moonlight 

coloured  grass ! 
At  their  backs  were  haggard  waste-lands,  bickering  in  a 

wicked  blaze ! 
In  their  faces  beamed  the  waters,  marching  down  melodious 

ways! 
Touching  was  the  cool,  soft  lustre  over  laps  of  lawn  and  lea; 
And  majestic  was  the  great  road  Morning  made  across  the 

sea. 
On  the  sacred  day  of  Christmas,  after  seven  months  of  grief, 
Rested  three  of  six  who  started,  on  a  bank  of  moss  and  leaf — 
Rested  by  a  running  river  in  a  hushed,  a  holy  week; 
And  they  named  the  stream  that  saved  them — named  it 

fitly — "  Christmas  Creek." 


THE  HUT  BY  THE  BLACK  SWAMP 

Now  comes  the  fierce  north-easter — bound 
About  with  clouds  and  racks  of  rain. 
And  dry  dead  leaves  go  whirling  round 
In  rings  of  dust,  and  sigh  like  pain 
Across  the  plain. 


176     The  Hut  by  the  Black  Swamp 

Now  twilight,  with  a  shadowy  hand 
Of  wild  dominionship,  doth  keep 
Strong  hold  of  hollow  straits  of  land, 
And  watery  sounds  are  loud  and  deep 
By  gap  and  steep. 

Keen  fitful  gusts,  that  fly  before 
The  wings  of  storm,  when  day  hath  shut 
Its  eyes  on  mountains,  flaw  by  flaw 
Pleet  down,  by  whistling  box-tree  butt, 
Against  the  hut. 

And  ringed  and  girt  with  lurid  pomp, 
Far  eastern  cliffs  start  up,  and  take 
Thick,  steaming  vapours  from  a  swamp 
That  iieth  like  a  great  blind  lake, 
Of  face  opaque; 

The  moss  that,  like  a  tender  grief. 
About  an  English  ruin  clings — 
What  time  the  wan  autumnal  leaf 
Faints,  after  many  wanderings 
On  windy  wings — 

That  gracious  growth — whose  quiet  green 
Is  as  a  love  in  days  austere, 
Was  never  seen — hath  never  been — 
On  slab  or  roof  deserted  here 
For  many  a  year. 

Nor  comes  the  bird  whose  speech  is  song- 
Whose  songs  are  silvery  syllables 
That  unto  glimmering  woods  belong, 
And  deep  meandering  mountain  dells 
By  yellow  wells. 

But  rather  here  the  wild-dog  halts. 
And  lifts  the  paw,  and  looks,  and  howls; 
And  here  in  ruined  forest  vaults, 
Abide  dim,  dark,  death-featured  owls, 
Like  monks  in  cowls. 


The  Hut  by  the  Black  Swamp      177 

Across  this  hut  the  nettle  runs, 
And  Hvid  adders  make  their  lair 
In  comers  dank  of  suns, 
And  out  of  foetid  furrows  stare 
The  growths  that  scare. 

Here  Summer's  grasp  of  fire  is  laid 
On  bank  and  slabs  that  rot,  and  breed 
Squat  ugly  things  of  deadly  shade. 
The  scorpion  and  the  spiteful  seed 
Of  centipede. 

Unhallowed  thunders,  harsh  and  dry, 
And  flaming  noontides,  mute  with  heat 
Beneath  the  breathless,  brazen  sky. 
Upon  these  rifted  rafters  beat 
With  torrid  feet: 

And  night  by  night  the  fitful  gale 
Doth  carry  past  the  bittern's  boom. 
The  dingo's  yell,  the  plover's  wail, 
While  lumbering  shadows  start,  and  loom. 
And  hiss  through  gloom : 

No  sign  of  grace — no  hope  of  green 
Cool  blossomed  seasons  mark  the  spot; 
But  chained  to  iron  doom,  I  ween, 
'Tis  left  like  skeleton  to  rot 
Where  ruth  is  not. 

For  on  this  hut  hath  murder  writ, 
With  bloody  fingers,  hellish  things; 
And  God  will  never  visit  it 
With  flower  or  leaf  of  sweet-faced  Springs, 
On  gentle  wings. 


178  The  Warrigal 


THE  ;^WARRIGAL  (WILD  DOG  OF  AUSTRALIA) 

The  warrigal's  lair  is  pent  in  bare 

Black  rocks  at  the  gorge's  mouth; 

It  is  set  in  ways,  where  summer  strays 

With  the  sprites  of  flame  and  drouth. 

But  when  the  heights  are  touched  with  lights 

Of  hoarfrost,  sleet,  and  shime, 

His  bed  is  made  of  the  dead  grass-blade 

And  the  leaves  of  the  windy  pine. 

Through  forest  boles  the  storm-wind  rolls, 

Vex't  of  the  sea-driv'n  rain; 

And  up  in  the  clift,  through  many  a  rift 

The  voices  of  torrents  complain. 

The  sad  march-fowl  and  the  lonely  owl 

Are  heard  in  the  fog-wreaths  grey, 

When  the  warrigal  wakes,  and  listens,  and  takes 

To  the  woods  that  shelter  the  prey. 

In  the  gully-deep  the  blind  creek  sleeps, 

And  the  silver  showery  moon 

Glides  over  the  hills,  and  floats,  and  fills, 

And  dreams  in  the  dark  lagoon; 

While  halting  hard  by  the  station  yard. 

Aghast  at  the  hut-flame  nigh. 

The  warrigal  yells  and  flats  and  fells 

Are  loud  with  his  dismal  cry. 

On  the  topmost  peak  of  the  mountains  bleak 

The  south  wind  sobs,  and  strays 

Through  moaning  pine  and  turpentine, 

And  the  rippling  runnel  ways; 

And  strong  streams  flow,  and  dank  mists  go, 

Where  the  warrigal  starts  to  hear 

The  watch-dog's  hark  break  sharp  in  the  dark, 

And  flees  like  a  phantom  of  fear. 


After  Many  Years  179 


AFTER  MANY  YEARS 

The  song  that  once  I  dreamed  about, 

The  tender,  touching  thing, 
As  radiant  as  the  rose  without. 

The  love  of  wind  and  wing; 
The  perfect  verses,  to  the  tune 

Of  woodland  music  set. 
As  beautiful  as  afternoon, 

Remain  unwritten  yet. 

It  is  too  late  to  write  them  now — 

The  ancient  fire  is  cold; 
No  ardent  lights  illume  the  brow, 

As  in  the  days  of  old. 
I  cannot  dream  the  dream  again; 

But,  when  the  happy  birds 
Are  singing  in  the  sunny  rain, 

I  think  I  hear  its  words. 

I  think  I  hear  the  echo  still 

Of  long-forgotten  tones, 
When  evening  winds  are  on  the  hill 

And  sunset  fires  the  cones; 
But  only  in  the  hours  supreme, 

With  songs  of  land  and  sea, 
The  lyrics  of  the  leaf  and  stream, 

This  echo  comes  to  me. 

No  longer  doth  the  earth  reveal 

Her  gracious  green  and  gold ; 
I  sit  where  youth  was  once,  and  feel 

That  I  am  growing  old. 
The  lustre  from  the  face  of  things 

Is  wearing  all  away; 
Like  one  who  halts  with  tired  wings, 

I  rest  and  muse  to-day. 

There  is  a  river  in  the  range 

I  love  to  think  about; 
Perhaps  the  searching  feet  of  change 

Have  never  found  it  out* 


i8o  After  Many  Years 

Ah !  often-times  I  used  to  look 

Upon  its  banks,  and  long 
To  steal  the  beauty  of  that  brook 

And  put  it  in  a  song. 

I  wonder  if  the  slopes  of  moss, 

In  dreams  so  dear  to  me — 
The  falls  of  flower,  and  flower-like  floss — 

Are  as  they  used  to  be ! 
I  wonder  if  the  waterfalls, 

The  singers  far  and  fair, 
That  gleamed  between  the  wet,  green  walls, 

Are  still  the  marvels  there ! 

Ah !  let  me  hope  that  in  that  place 

Those  old  familiar  things 
To  which  I  turn  a  wistful  face 

Have  never  taken  wings. 
Let  me  retain  the  fancy  still 

That,  past  the  lordly  range, 
There  always  shines,  in  folds  of  hill, 

One  spot  secure  from  change ! 

I  trust  that  yet  the  tender  screen 

That  shades  a  certain  nook 
Remains,  with  all  its  gold  and  green. 

The  glory  of  the  brook. 
It  hides  a  secret  to  the  birds 

And  waters  only  known : 
The  letters  of  two  lovely  words — 

A  poem  on  a  stone. 

Perhaps  the  lady  of  the  past 

Upon  these  lines  may  light. 
The  purest  verses,  and  the  last. 

That  I  may  ever  write: 
She  need  not  fear  a  word  of  blame: 

Her  tale  the  flowers  keep — 
The  wind  that  heard  me  breathe  her  name 

Has  been  for  years  asleep. 


With  French  to  Kimberley         i  8  i 

But  in  the  night,  and  when  the  rain 

The  troubled  torrent  fills, 
I  often  think  I  see  again 

The  river  in  the  hills; 
And  when  the  day  is  very  near, 

And  birds  are  on  the  wing, 
My  spirit  fancies  it  can  hear 

The  song  I  cannot  sing. 

Henry  Kendall, 


WITH  FRENCH  TO  KIMBERLEY 

The  Boers  were  down  on  Kimberley  with  siege  and  Maxim 

gun; 
The  Boers  were  down  on  Kimberley  their  number  ten  to  one  I 
Faint  were  the  hopes  the  British  had  to  make  the  struggle 

good, 
Defenceless  in  an  open  plain  the  diamond  city  stood. 
They  built  them  forts  from  bags  of  sand,  they  fought  from 

roof  and  wall, 
They  flashed  a  message  to  the  south:  "  Help!  or  the  town 

must  fall !  " 
And  down  our  ranks  the  order  ran  to  march  at  dawn  of  day, 
For  French  was  off  to  Kimberley  to  drive  the  Boers  away. 

He  made  us  march  along  the  line;  he  made  no  front  attack 
Upon  the  Magersfontein  heights  that  drove  the  Scotchmen 

back; 
But  eastward  over  pathless  plains  by  open  veldt  and  vley, 
Across  the  front  of  Cronje's  force  his  troopers  held  their  way. 
The  springbuck  feeding  on  the  flats  where  Modder  river  runs. 
Were  startled  by  his  horses'  hoofs,  the  rumble  of  his  guns. 
The  Dutchman's  spies  that  watched  his  march  from  every 

rocky  wall 
Rode  back  in  haste:  "  He  marches  east !  He  threatens  Tacobs- 

dal." 
Then  north  he  wheeled  as  wheels  the  hawk  and  showed  to 

their  dismay. 
That  French  was  off  to  Kimberley  to  drive  the  Boers  away. 


1 82         With  French  to  Kimberley 

His  column  was  five  thousand  strong — all  mounted  men  and 

guns: 
There   met  beneath   the  world-wide  flag,   the  world-wide 

Empire's  sons; 
They  came  to  prove  to  all  the  earth  that  kinship  conquers 

space, 
And  those  who  fight  the  British  Isles  must  fight  the  British 

race! 
From  far  New  Zealand's  flax  and  fern,  from  cold  Canadian 

snows, 
From  Queensland  plains,  where  hot  as  fire  the  summer  sun- 
shine glows; 
And  in  the  front  the  Lancers  rode  that  New  South  Wales  had 

sent: 
With  easy  stride  across  the  plain  the  long  lean  Walers  went. 
Unknown,  untried  those  squadrons  were,  but  proudly  out  they 

drew 
Beside  the  English  regiments  that  fought  at  Waterloo, 
From  every  coast,  from  every  clime,  they  met  in  proud  array, 
To  go  with  French  to  Kimberley  to  drive  the  Boers  away. 

He  crossed  the  Riet  and  fought  his  way  towards  the  Modder 

bank. 
The  foemen  closed  behind  his  march  and  hung  upon  his 

flank, 
The  long  drj^  grass  was  all  ablaze,  and  fierce  the  veldt  fire  runs ; 
He  fought  them  through  a  wall  of  flame  that  blazed  around 

the  guns! 
Then  limbered  up  and  drove  at  speed,  though  horses  fell  and 

died; 
We  might  not  halt  for  man  or  beast  on  that  wild  daring  ride. 
Black  with  the  smoke  and  parched  with  thirst,  we  pressed 

the  live-long  day 
Our  headlong  march  to  Kimberley  to  drive  the  Boers  away. 

We  reached  the  drift  at  fall  of  night,  and  camped  across  the 

ford. 
Next  day  from  the  hills  around  the  Dutchman's  cannons 

roared. 
A  narrow  pass  between  the  hills  with  guns  on  either  side; 
The  boldest  man  might  well  turn  pale  before  that  pass  he 

tried, 


Saltbush  Bill  183 

For  if  the  first  attack  should  fail  then  every  hope  was  gone : 
But  French  looked  once,  and  only  once,  and  then  he  said, 

"Push  on!" 
The  gunners  plied  their  guns  amain,  the  hail  of  shrapnel  flew ; 
With  rifle  fire  and  lancer  charge  their  squadron  back  we 

threw; 
And  through  the  pass  between  the  hills  we  swept  a  furious 

fray 
And  French  was  through  to  Kimberley  to  drive  the  Boers 

away. 

Ay,  French  was  through  to  Kimberley !  And  ere  the  day  was 

done 
We  saw  the  diamond  city  stand,  lit  by  the  evening  sun: 
Above  the  town  the  heliograph  hung  like  an  eye  of  flame: 
Around  the  town  the  foemen  camped — they  knew  not  that  we 

came. 
But  soon  they  saw  us,  rank  on  rank;  they  heard  our  squad- 
rons' tread; 
In  panic  fear  they  left  their  tents,  in  hopeless  rout  they  fled; 
And  French  rode  into  Kimberley;  the  people  cheered  amain, 
The  women  came  with  tear-stained  eyes  to  touch  his  bridle- 
rein. 
The  starving  children  lined  the  streets  to  raise  a  feeble  cheer, 
The  bells  rang  out  a  joyous  peal  to  say  "  Relief  is  here!  " 
Ay !  We  that  saw  that  stirring  march  are  proud  that  we  can 

say 
We  went  with  French  to  Kimberley  to  drive  the  Boers  away. 


SALTBUSH  BILL 

Now  this  is  the  law  of  the  Overland  that  all  in  the  West 
obey, 

A  man  must  cover  with  travelling  sheep  a  six-mile  stage  a 
day; 

But  this  is  the  law  which  the  drovers  make,  right  easily  under- 
stood, 

They  travel  their  stage  where  the  grass  is  bad,  but  they 
camp  where  the  grass  is  good; 


184  Saltbush  Bill 

They  camp  and  they  ravage  the  squatter's  grass  till  never  a 

blade  remains^ 
Then  they  drift  away  as  the  white  clouds  drift  on  the  edge  of 

the  saltbush  plains, 
From  camp  to  camp  and  from  run  to  run  they  battle  it  hand 

to  hand, 
For  a  blade  of  grass  and  the  right  to  pass  on  the  track  of  the 

Overland. 
For  this  is  the  law  of  the  Great  Stock  Routes,  'tis  written  in 

white  and  black — 
The  man  that  goes  with  a  travelling  mob  must  keep  to  a 

half-mile  track; 
And  the  drovers  keep  to  a  half-mile  track  on  the  runs  where 

the  grass  is  dead, 
But  they  spread  their  sheep  on  a  well-grassed  run  till  they  go 

with  a  two-mile  spread. 
So  the  squatters  hurry  the  drovers  on  from  dawn  till  the  fall 

of  night, 
And  the  squatter's  dogs  and  the  drover's  dogs  get  mixed  in  a 

deadly  fight; 
Yet  the  squatter's  men,  though  they  hunt  the  mob,  are  will- 
ing the  peace  to  keep. 
For  the  drovers  learn  how  to  use  their  hands  when  they  go 

with  the  travelling  sheep; 
But  this  is  the  tale  of  a  Jackaroo  ^  that  came  from  a  foreign 

strand. 
And  the  fight  that  he  fought  with  Saltbush  Bill,  the  King  of 

the  Overland. 

Now  Saltbush  Bill  was  a  drover  tough,  as  ever  the  country 

knew, 
He  had  fought  his  way  on  the  Great  Stock  Routes  from  the 

sea  to  the  Big  Barcoo; 
He  could  tell  when  he  came  to  a  friendly  run  that  gave  him 

a  chance  to  spread, 
And  he  knew  where  the  hungry  owners  were  that  hurried  his 

sheep  ahead; 
He  was  drifting  down  in  the  Eighty  drought  with  a  mob  that 

could  scarcely  creep 
(Where  the  kangaroos  by  the  thousands  starve,  it  is  rough 

on  the  travelling  sheep), 

*  New  chum,  stranger. 


Saltbush  Bill  185 

And  he  camped  one  night  at  the  crossing-place  on  the  edge 

of  the  Wilga  run, 
"  We  must  manage  a  feed  for  them  here,"  he  said,  "  or  the 

half  of  the  mob  are  done !  " 
So  he  spread  them  out  when  they  left  the  camp  wherever 

they  liked  to  go. 
Till  he  grew  aware  of  a  Jackaroo  with  a  station-hand  in  tow, 
And  they  set  to  work  on  the  straggling  sheep,  and  with  many 

a  stock  whip  crack 
They  forced  them  on  where  the  grass  was  dead  on  the  space 

of  the  half-mile  track; 
So  William  prayed  that  the  hand  of  fate  might  suddenly 

strike  him  blue 
But  he'd  get  some  grass  for  his  starving  sheep  in  the  teeth  of 

that  Jackaroo. 
So  he  turned  and  he  cursed  the  Jackaroo,  he  cursed  him  alive 

or  dead. 
From  the  soles  of  his  great  unwieldy  feet  to  the  crown  of  his 

ugly  head, 
With  an  extra  curse  on  the  moke  he  rode  and  the  cur  at  his 

heels  that  ran. 
Till  the  Jackaroo  from  his  horse  got  down  and  he  went  for  the 

drover-man; 
With  the  station-hand  for  his  picker-up,  though  the  sheep 

ran  loose  the  while, 
They  battled  it  out  on  the  saltbush  plain,  in  the  regular  prize- 
ring  style. 

Now  the  new  chum  fought  for  his  honour's  sake,  and  the 

pride  of  the  English  race. 
But  the  drover  fought  for  his  daily  bread  with  a  smile  on  his 

bearded  face; 
So  he  shifted  ground  and  he  sparred  for  wind  and  he  made  it 

a  lengthy  mill. 
And  from  time  to  time  as  his  scouts  came  on  they  whispered 

to  Saltbush  Bill — 
"  We  have  spread  the  sheep  with  a  two-mile  spread,  and  the 

grass  it  is  something  grand. 
You  must  stick  to  him.  Bill,  for  another  round  for  the  pride 

of  the  Overland." 
The  new  chum  made  it  a  rushing  fight,  though  never  a  blow 

got  home, 


1 86  The  Sick  Stockrider 

Till  the  sun  rode  high  in  the  cloudless  sky  and  glared  on  the 

brick-red  loanij 
Till  the  sheep  drew  into  the  shelter  trees  and  settled  them 

down  for  rest, 
Then  the  drover  said  he  would  fight  no  more  and  he  gave  his 

opponent  best. 
So  the  new  chum  rode  to  the  homestead  straight  and  he  told 

them  a  story  grand, 
Of  the  desperate  fight  that  he  fought  that  day  with  the  King 

of  the  Overland, 
And  the  tale  went  home  to  the  public  schools  of  the  pluck  of 

the  English  swell, 
How  the  drover  fought  for  his  very  life,  but  blood  in  the  end 

must  tell. 
But  the  travelling  sheep  and  the  Wilga  sheep  were  boxed  on 

the  old  man's  plain, 
'Twas  a  full  week's  work  ere  they  drafted  out  and  hunted 

them  off  again. 
With  a  week's  good  grass  in  their  wretched  hides,  with  a  curse 

and  a  stock  whip  crack. 
They  hunted  them  off  on  the  road  once  more  to  starve  on 

the  half-mile  track; 
And  Saltbush  Bill,  on  the  Overland,  will  many  a  time  recite 
How  the  best  day's  work  that  ever  he  did  was  the  day  that 

he  lost  the  fight. 

A.  B.  Paterson. 


THE  SICK  STOCKRIDER 

Hold  hard,  Ned!    Lift  me  down  once  more,  and  lay  me  in 
the  shade. 

Old  man,  you've  had  your  work  cut  out  to  guide 
Both  horses,  and  to  hold  me  in  the  saddle  when  I  sway'd. 

All  through  the  hot,  slow,  sleepy,  silent  ride. 
The  dawn  at  "  Moorabinda  "  was  a  mist  rack  dull  and  dense, 

The  sunrise  was  a  sullen,  sluggish  lamp; 
I  was  dozing  in  the  gateway  at  Arbuthnot's  bound'ry  fence, 

I  was  dreaming  on  the  limestone  cattle  camp. 
We  crossed  the  creek  at  Carricksford,  and  sharply  through 
the  haze, 


The  Sick  Stockrider  187 

And  suddenly  the  sun  shot  flaming  forth; 
To  southward  lay  "  Katavva  "  with  the  sand  peaks  all  ablaze 

And  the  flush'd  fields  of  Glen  Lomond  lay  to  north. 
Now  westward  winds  the  bridle  path  that  leads  to  Lindis- 
farne, 

And  yonder  looms  the  double-headed  Bluflf ; 
From  the  far  side  of  the  first  hill,  when  the  skies  are  clear  and 
calm, 

You  can  see  Sylvester's  woolshed  fair  enough. 
Five  miles  we  used  to  call  it  from  our  homestead  to  the  place 

Where  the  big  tree  spans  the  roadway  like  an  arch; 
'Twas  here  we  ran  the  dingo  down  that  gave  us  such  a  chase 

Eight  years  ago — or  was  it  nine? — last  March. 

'Twas  merry  in  the  glowing  mom,  among  the  gleaming  grass, 

To  wander  as  we've  wandered  many  a  mile, 
And  blow  the  cool  tobacco  cloud,  and  watch  the  white 
wreaths  pass, 

Sitting  loosely  in  the  saddle  all  the  while. 
'Twas  merry  'mid  the  blackwoods,  when  we  spied  the  station 
roofs, 

To  wheel  the  wild  scrub  cattle  at  the  yard, 
With  a  running  fire  of  stock  whips  and  a  fiery  run  of  hoofs ; 

Ah !  the  hardest  day  was  never  then  too  hard ! 

Aye!    we  had  a  glorious  gallop  after  "Starlight"  and  his 
gang, 
When  they  bolted  from  Sylvester's  on  the  flat; 
How  the  sun-dried  reed  beds  crackled,  how  the  flint-strewn 
ranges  rang 
To  the  strokes  of  "  Mountaineer  "  and  "  Acrobat." 
Hard  behind  them  in  the  timber,  harder  still  across  the  heath. 

Close  beside  them  through  the  tea-tree  scrub  we  dash'd; 
And  the  golden-tinted  fern  leaves,  how  they  rustled  under- 
neath ! 
And  the  honeysuckle  osiers,  how  they  crash'd ! 

We  led  the  hunt  throughout,  Ned,  on  the  chestnut  and  the 
grey, 

And  the  troopers  were  three  hundred  yards  behind. 
While  we  emptied  our  six-shooters  on  the  bushrangers  at  bay. 

In  the  creek  with  stunted  box-trees  for  a  blind ! 


I  88  The  Sick  Stockrider 

There  you  grappled  with  the  leader,  man  to  man  and  horse 
to  horse, 

And  you  roU'd  together  when  the  chestnut  rear'd; 
He  blaz'd  away  and  missed  you  in  that  shallow  water  course — 

A  narrow  shave — his  powder  singed  your  beard. 

In  these  days  when  life  is  ebbing,  how  those  days  when  life 
was  young 
Come  back  to  us;  how  clearly  I  recall 
Even   the  yams  Jack  Hall  invented,  and  the  songs  Jem 
Roper  sang; 
And  where  are  now  Jem  Roper  and  Jack  Hall? 

Aye !  nearly  all  our  comrades  of  the  old  colonial  school. 

Our  ancient  boon  companions,  Ned,  are  gone; 
Hard  livers  for  the  most  part,  somewhat  reckless  as  a  rule, 

It  seems  that  you  and  I  are  left  alone. 
There  was  Hughes  who  got  in  trouble  through  that  business 
with  the  cards. 

It  matters  little  what  became  of  him; 
But  a  steer  ripped  up  MacPherson  in  the  Cooraminta  yards. 

And  Sullivan  was  drowned  at  Sink-or-Swim ; 
And  Mostyn  —  poor  Frank  Mostyn  —  died  at  last  a  fearful 
wreck 

In  "  the  horrors  "  at  the  upper  Wandinong, 
And  Carisbrook,  the  rider,  at  the  Horsefall  broke  his  neck, 

Faith !    The  wonder  was  he  saved  his  neck  so  long ! 

Ah!    those  days  and  nights  we  squandered  at  the  Logans' 
in  the  glen — 

The  Logans,  man  and  wife,  have  long  been  dead. 
Elsie's  tallest  girl  seems  taller  than  your  little  Elsie  then; 

And  Ethel  is  a  woman  grown  and  wed. 

I've  had  my  share  of  pastime,  and  I've  done  my  share  of  toil. 

And  Hfe  is  short — the  longest  life  a  span; 
I  care  not  now  to  tarry  for  the  com  or  for  the  oil, 

Or  for  the  wine  that  maketh  glad  the  heart  of  man. 
For  good  undone  and  gifts  mis-spent  and  resolutions  vain, 

'Tis  somewhat  late  to  trouble.     This  I  know — 
I  should  live  the  same  life  over,  if  I  had  to  live  again; 

And  the  chances  are  I  go  where  most  men  go. 


Wolf  and  Hound  189 

The  deep  blue  skies  wax  dusky,  and  the  tall  green  trees  grow 
dim, 
The  sward  beneath  me  seems  to  heave  and  fall ; 
And  sickly,  smoky  shadows  through  the  sleepy  sunlight  swim, 

And  on  the  very  sun's  face  weave  their  pall. 
Let  me  slumber  in  the  hollow  where  the  wattle  blossoms 
wave, 
With  never  stone  or  rail  to  fence  my  bed; 
Should  the  sturdy  station  children  pull  the  bush  flowers  on 
my  grave, 
I  may  chance  to  hear  them  romping  overhead. 


WOLF  AND  HOUND 

"  The  hills  like  giants  at  a  hunting  lay, 
Chin  upon  hand  to  see  the  game  at  bay." — Browning. 

You'll  take  my  tale  with  a  little  salt, 

But  it  needs  none,  nevertheless; 
I  was  foiled  completely,  fairly  at  fault, 

Dishearten'd  too,  I  confess. 
At  the  splitters'  tent  I  had  seen  the  track 

Of  horsehoofs  fresh  on  the  sward. 
And  though  Darby  Lynch  and  Donovan  Jack 

(Who  could  swear  through  a  ten-inch  board) 
Solemnly  swore  he  had  not  been  there, 

I  was  just  as  sure  that  they  lied, 
For  to  Darby  all  that  is  foul  was  fair, 

And  Jack  for  his  life  was  tried. 

We  had  run  him  for  seven  miles  and  more 

As  hard  as  our  nags  could  split ; 
At  the  start  they  were  all  too  weary  and  sore. 

And  his  was  quite  fresh  and  fit. 
Young  Marsden's  pony  had  had  enough 

On  the  plain,  where  the  chase  was  hot; 
We  breasted  the  swell  of  the  Bittern's  Bluff, 

And  Mark  couldn't  raise  a  trot; 


190  Wolf  and  Hound 

When  the  sea,  like  a  splendid  silver  shield, 

To  the  southward  suddenly  lay; 
At  the  brow  of  the  Beetle  the  chestnut  reel'd, 

And  I  bid  good-bye  to  McCrea — 
And  I  was  alone  when  the  mare  fell  lame. 

With  a  pointed  flint  in  her  shoe, 
On  the  stony  flats;  I  had  lost  the  game, 

And  what  was  a  man  to  do  ? 

I  turned  away  with  no  fixed  intent 

And  headed  for  Hawthorn  dell; 
I  could  neither  eat  at  the  splitter's  tent 

Nor  drink  at  the  splitter's  well; 
I  knew  that  they  gloried  in  my  mishap. 

And  I  cursed  them  between  my  teeth — 
A  blood-red  sunset  through  Brayton's  gap 

Flung  a  lurid  fire  on  the  heath. 

Could  I  reach  the  dell?     I  had  little  reck, 

And  with  scarce  a  choice  of  my  own 
I  threw  the  reins  on  Miladi's  neck — 

I  had  freed  her  foot  from  the  stone. 
That  season  most  of  the  swamps  were  dry, 

And  after  so  hard  a  burst 
In  the  sultry  noon  of  so  hot  a  sky 

She  was  keen  to  appease  her  thirst — 
Or  by  instinct  urged  and  impelled  by  fate — 

I  care  not  to  solve  these  things — 
Certain  it  was  that  she  took  me  straight 

To  the  Warrigal  water  springs. 

I  can  shut  my  eyes  and  recall  the  ground 

As  though  it  were  yesterday — 
With  a  shelf  of  the  bare  grey  rocks  girt  round. 

The  springs  in  their  basin  lay; 
Woods  to  the  east  and  wolds  to  the  north 

In  the  sundown  sullenly  bloomed ; 
Dead  black  on  a  curtain  of  crimson  cloth 

Large  peaks  to  the  westward  loomed. 
I  led  Miladi  through  weed  and  sedge. 

She  leisurely  drank  her  fill; 
There  was  something  close  to  the  water's  edge. 

And  my  heart  with  one  bound  stood  still. 


Wolf  and  Hound  191 

For  a  horse's  shoe  and  a  rider's  boot 

Had  left  clean  prints  on  the  clay; 
Some  one  had  watered  his  beast  on  foot, 

'Twas  he,  he  had  gone — Which  way? 
Then  the  mouth  of  the  cavern  faced  me  fair. 

As  I  turned  and  fronted  the  rocks; 
So  at  last  I  had  pressed  the  wolf  to  his  lair, 

I  had  run  to  his  earth  the  fox. 

I  thought  so.    Perhaps  he  was  resting.     Perhaps 

He  was  waiting,  watching  for  me. 
I  examined  all  my  revolver  caps, 

I  hitched  my  mare  to  a  tree — 
I  had  sworn  to  have  him,  alive  or  dead, 

And  to  give  him  a  chance  was  loth; 
He  knew  his  life  had  been  forfeited — 

He  had  even  heard  of  my  oath. 
In  my  stockinged  soles  to  the  shelf  I  crept, 

I  crawled  safe  into  the  cave — 
All  silent — if  he  was  there  he  slept; 

Not  there — all  dark  as  the  grave. 

Through  the  crack  I  could  hear  the  leaden  hiss ! 

See  the  livid  face  through  the  flame ! 
How  strange  it  seems  that  a  man  should  miss 

When  his  life  depends  on  his  aim ! 
There  couldn't  have  been  a  better  light 

For  him,  nor  a  worse  for  me. 
We  were  cooped  up,  caged  like  beasts  for  a  fight. 

And  dumb  as  dumb  beasts  were  we. 

Flash !  flash !  bang !  bang !  and  we  blazed  away 

And  the  grey  roof  reddened  and  rang; 
Flash !  flash !  and  I  felt  his  bullet  flay 

The  tip  of  my  ear.     Flash !  bang ! 
Bang!  flash!  and  my  pistol  arm  fell  broke; 

I  struck  with  my  left  hand  then — 
Struck  at  a  corpse  through  a  cloud  of  smoke — 

I  had  shot  him  dead  in  his  den ! 


192  From  the  Wreck 


FROM  THE  WRECK 

"  Turn  out,  boys!  " — "  What's  up  with  our  super  to-night? 

The  man's  mad — Two  hours  to  daybreak  I'd  swear, 
Stark  mad — why  there  isn't  a  ghmmer  of  hght." 

"  Take  Bohngbroke,  Alec,  give  Jack  the  young  mare. 
Look  sharp !    A  large  vessel  lies  jammed  on  the  reef, 

And  many  on  board  still,  and  some  washed  on  shore. 
Ride  straight  with  the  news — they  may  send  some  relief 

From  the  township;  and  we,  we  can  do  little  more. 
You,  Alec,  you  know  the  near  cuts;  you  can  cross 

The  "  Sugar-loaf  "  ford  with  a  scramble,  I  think; 
Don't  spare  the  blood  filly,  nor  yet  the  black  horse. 

Should  the  wind  rise,  God  help  them!   the  ship  will  soon 
sink. 
Old  Peter's  away  down  the  paddock,  to  drive 

The  nags  to  the  stockyard  as  fast  as  he  can — 
A  life  and  death  matter;  so,  lads,  look  alive." 

Half  dress'd  in  the  dark  to  the  stockyard  he  ran. 

There  was  bridling  with  hurry  and  saddling  with  haste, 

Confusion  and  cursing  for  lack  of  a  moon; 
"  Be  quick  with  those  buckles,  we've  no  time  to  waste." 

"  Mind  the  mare;  she  can  use  her  hind  legs  to  some  tune." 
"  Make  sure  of  the  crossing  place:  strike  the  old  track. 

They've  fenced  off  the  new  one;  look  out  for  the  holes 
On  the  wombat  hills."     "  Down  with  the  slip  rails.     Stand 
back! 

And  ride,  boys,  the  pair  of  you,  ride  for  your  souls." 

In  the  low  branches  heavily  laden  with  dew, 

In  the  long  grasses  spoiling  with  dead  wood  that  day. 
Where  the  blackwood,  the  box,  and  the  bastard  oak  grew 

Between  the  tall  gum  trees  we  galloped  away — 
We  crashed  through  a  bush  fence,  we  splashed  through  a 
swamp — 

We  steered  for  the  north,  near  "  The  Eagle-hawk's  Nest." 
We  bore  to  the  left;  just  beyond  "  the  Red  camp," 

And  round  the  black  tea-tree  belt  wheel'd  to  the  west — 


From  the  Wreck  193 

We  crossed  a  low  range  sickly  scented  with  musk 

From  wattle-tree  blossom — we  skirted  a  marsh — 
Then  the  dawn  faintly  dappled  with  orange  the  dusk, 

And  peal'd  overhead  the  jay's  laughter  note  harsh, 
And  shot  the  first  sunstreak  behind  us,  and  soon 

The  dim  dewy  uplands  were  dreamy  with  light. 
And  full  on  our  left  flash'd  "  The  Reedy  Lagoon," 

And  sharply  "  The  Sugar-loaf  "  reared  on  our  right. 
A  smothered  curse  broke  through  the  bushman's  brown  beard. 

He  turned  in  his  saddle,  his  brick-colour'd  cheek 
Flush'd  feebly  with  sundawn,  said,  "  Just  what  I  feared. 

Last  fortnight's  late  rainfall  has  flooded  the  creek." 

Black  Bolingbroke  snorted,  and  stood  on  the  brink 

One  instant,  then  deep  in  the  dark  sluggish  swirl 
Plunged  headlong.     I  saw  the  horse  suddenly  sink 

Till  round  the  man's  armpits  the  waves  seemed  to  curl. 
We  followed — one  cold  shock,  and  deeper  we  sank 

Than  they  did,  and  twice  tried  the  landing  in  vain, 
The  third  struggle  won  it;  straight  up  the  steep  bank 

We  stagger'd,  then  out  on  the  skirts  of  the  plain. 

The  stockrider.  Alec,  at  starting  had  got 

The  lead,  and  had  kept  it  throughout;  'twas  his  boast 
That  through  thickest  of  scrub  he  could  steer  like  a  shot, 

And  the  black  horse  was  counted  the  best  on  the  coast. 
The  mare  had  been  awkward  enough  in  the  dark 

She  was  eager  and  headstrong,  and  barely  half  broke; 
She  had  had  me  too  close  to  a  big  stringy-bark, 

And  had  made  a  near  thing  of  a  crooked  she  oak; 
But  now  on  the  open  lit  up  by  the  mom, 

She  flung  the  fleecy  white  foam-flakes  from  nostril  to  neck, 
And  chased  him — I  hatless,  with  shirt  sleeves  all  torn 

(For  he  may  ride  ragged  who  rides  from  a  wreck) — 
And  faster  and  faster  across  the  wide  heath 

We  rode  till  we  raced.     Then  I  gave  her  her  head, 
And  she — stretching  out  with  the  bit  in  her  teeth — 

She  caught  him,  outpaced  him,  and  passed  him,  and  led. 
We  neared  the  new  fence;  we  were  wide  of  the  track; 

I  looked  right  and  left — she  had  never  been  tried 
At  a  stiff  leap.     'Twas  httle  he  cared  on  the  black. 

"  You're  more  than  a  mile  from  the  gateway,"  he  cried, 

N 


194  From  the  Wreck 

I  clung  to  her  head^  touched  her  flank  with  the  spurs, 

(In  the  red  streak  of  rail  not  the  ghost  of  a  gap), 
She  shortened  her  long  stroke,  she  pricked  her  sharp  ears, 

She  flung  it  behind  her  with  hardly  a  rap — 
I  saw  the  post  quiver  where  Bolingbroke  struck, 

And  guessed  the  pace  we  had  come  the  last  mile 
Had  blown  him  a  bit  (he  could  jump  like  a  buck). 

We  galloped  more  steadily  then  for  a  while. 

The  heath  was  soon  pass'd,  in  the  dim  distance  lay 

The  mountain.     The  sun  was  clearing  the  tips 
Of  the  ranges  to  eastward.    The  mare — could  she  stay? 

She  was  bred  very  nearly  as  clean  as  Eclipse: 
She  led,  and  as  oft  as  he  came  to  her  side, 

She  took  the  bit  free  and  untiring  as  yet; 
Her  neck  was  arched  double,  her  nostrils  were  wide 

And  the  tips  of  her  tapering  ears  nearly  met — 
"  You're  lighter  than  I  am,"  said  Alec  at  last, 

The  horse  is  dead  beat  and  the  mare  isn't  blown. 
She  must  be  a  good  one — ride  on  and  ride  fast. 

You  know  your  way  now."     So  I  rode  on  alone. 

Still  galloping  forward  we  pass'd  the  two  flocks 

At  Mclntyre's  hut  and  McAllister's  hill — 
She  was  galloping  strong  at  the  Warrigal  Rocks — 

On  the  Wallaby  Range  she  was  galloping  still — 
And  over  the  wasteland  and  under  the  wood, 

By  down  and  by  dale,  and  by  fell  and  by  flat, 
She  gallop'd,  and  here  in  the  stirrup  I  stood 

To  ease  her  and  there  in  the  saddle  I  sat 
To  steer  her.    We  suddenly  struck  the  red  loam 

Of  the  track  near  the  troughs — then  she  reeled  on  the  rise- 
From  her  crest  to  her  croup  covered  over  with  foam. 

And  blood-red  her  nostrils  and  bloodshot  her  eyes, 
A  dip  in  the  dell  where  the  wattle  fire  bloomed — 

A  bend  round  the  bank  that  had  shut  out  the  view — 
Large  framed  in  the  mild  light  the  mountain  had  loom'd 

With  a  tall  purple  peak  bursting  out  from  the  blue. 

I  pull'd  her  together,  I  press'd  her  and  she 

Shot  down  the  decline  to  the  Company's  yard. 

And  on  by  the  paddocks,  yet  under  my  knee 

I  could  feel  her  heart  thumping  the  saddle  flaps  hard. 


Whisperings  in  Wattle  Boughs      195 

Yet  a  mile  and  another  and  now  we  were  near 

The  goal,  and  the  fields  and  farms  flitted  past;, 
And  'twixt  the  two  fences  I  turned  with  a  cheer, 
And  labourers,  roused  by  her  galloping  hoofs, 

Saw  bare-headed  rider  and  foam-sheeted  steed ; 
And  shone  the  white  walls  and  the  slate-covered  roofs 

Of  the  township.     I  steadied  her  then — I  had  need — 
Where  stood  the  old  chapel  (where  stands  the  new  church — 

Since  chapels  to  churches  have  changed  in  that  town), 
A  short  sidelong  stagger,  a  long  forward  lurch, 

A  slight  choking  sob,  and  the  mare  had  gone  down. 
I  slipped  off  the  bridle,  I  slackened  the  girth, 

I  ran  on  and  left  her  and  told  them  my  news; 
I  saw  her  soon  afterwards.    What  was  she  worth? 

How  much  for  her  hide?     She  had  never  worn  shoes. 


WHISPERINGS  IN  WATTLE  BOUGHS 

Oh,  gaily  sings  the  bird !  and  the  wattle  boughs  are  stirr'd 
And  rustled  by  the  scented  breath  of  spring; 
Oh,  the  dreary  wistful  longing !  Oh,  the  faces  that  are  throng- 
ing! 
Oh,  the  voices  that  are  vaguely  whispering ! 

Oh,  tell  me,  father  mine,  ere  the  good  ship  cross'd  the 

brine. 
On  the  gangway  one  mute  hand-grip  we  exchang'd. 
Do  you,  past  the  grave,  employ,  for  your  stubborn,  reckless 

boy, 
Those  petitions  that  in  hfe  were  ne'er  estrang'd? 

Oh,  tell  me,  sister  dear,  parting  word  and  parting  tear 

Never  pass'd  between  us; — let  me  bear  the  blame. 

Are  you  living,  girl,  or  dead?  bitter  tears  since  then  I've 

shed 
For  the  lips  that  lisp'd  with  mine  a  mother's  name. 


I  96  Hearts  of  Gold 

Oh,  tell  me,  ancient  friend,  ever  ready  to  defend. 

In  our  boyhood,  at  the  base  of  life's  long  hill. 

Are  you  working  yet  or  sleeping?   Have  you  left  this  vale  of 

weeping? 
Or  do  you,  like  your  comrade,  linger  still? 

Oh,  whisper,  buried  love,  is  there  rest  and  peace  above? — 

There  is  little  hope  or  comfort  here  below; — 

On  your  sweet  face  lies  the  mould,  and  your  bed  is  straight 

and  cold — 
Near  the  harbour  where  the  sea-tides  ebb  and  flow. 


All  silent — they  are  dumb — and  the  breezes  go  and  come 
With  an  apathy  that  mocks  at  man's  distress; 
Laugh,  scoffer,  while  you  may !  I  could  bow  me  down  and  pray 
For  an  answer  that  might  stay  my  bitterness. 

Oh,  harshly  screams  the  bird;  and  the  wattle-bloom  is  stirr'd. 
There's  a  sullen  wend-hke  whisper  in  the  bough: 
"  Aye,  kneel,  and  pray,  and  weep,  but  His  beloved  sleep 
Can  never  be  disturb'd  by  such  as  thou!  " 

A.  Lindsay  Gordon. 


HEARTS  OF  GOLD 

Though  poets  have  not  yet  sung  you 
Nor  writers  your  true  worth  told, 

I,  who  have  wrought  among  you, 
I  know  you  for  Hearts  of  Gold  I 

Toiling  with  shovel  and  dray. 

With  reaper  and  harrow  and  drill, 
For  the  old  folks  wrinkled  and  gray 

In  the  old  home  under  the  hill; 
Brave,  broad-shouldered,  and  brown, 

With  the  width  of  the  world  to  roam. 
Staying  to  battle  a  mortgage  down 

That  a  mother  may  keep  her  home.  .  .  . 
Hearts  of  Gold  1  O,  Hearts  of  Gold ! 


Hearts  of  Gold  197 

Toiling  out  on  the  blue-grass  plains 

With  plunging  leaders  and  ringing  chains; 

Working  early  and  working  late 

To  the  click  of  the  dusty  drafting  gate; 

Steadying  ponies  scared  and  wild: 
All  for  a  mother,  a  wife,  a  child.  .  .  . 

Hearts  of  Gold !  0,  Hearts  of  Gold ! 

Out  in  the  scorching  pitiless  sun 

Under  the  reeling,  rocky  sky, 
With  a  comrade  gasping,  "  Mate,  I'm  done !  " 
Making  the  last  two  drinks  in  one 

Lest  a  good,  true  mate  should  die.  .  .  . 

Hearts  of  Gold !    0,  Hearts  of  Gold ! 

Lending  your  arms  when  the  floods  are  down, 

Lest  a  neighbour's  stock  in  the  dark  should  drown; 

Sweating  with  green  boughs,  turn  and  turn, 

Lest  a  neighbour's  crop  in  the  night  should  bum; 

Riding  the  hills  at  the  risk  of  life 

For  a  doctor's  aid  for  a  neighbour's  wife.  .  .  . 
Hearts  of  Gold !  0,  Hearts  of  Gold ! 

Men  who  have  ridden  all  day, 

Hungry  and  saddle  sore, 
Snatching  a  morsel  and  riding  away 

Maybe  for  ten  hours  more, 
In  the  lined  advance, 

That  the  range  may  give 
One  more  faint  chance 

To  a  child  to  live.  .  .  . 

Hearts  of  Gold!  0,  Hearts  of  Gold! 

Women  alone  in  the  Bush, 

Mothers  and  wives, 
Keeping  your  guard  in  the  weird  night-hush 

Over  the  sleeping  lives; 
In  woe  or  weal 

Staunch  and  fond. 
True  as  steel 

To  the  marriage  bond.  .  .  . 

Hearts  of  Gold !  O,  Hearts  of  Gold ! 


98  The  Mails 

Fighting  the  fires  and  floods  and  drought, 
The  nights  of  terror  and  days  of  doubt, 
Shifting  the  outposts  farther  out.  .  .  . 

Hearts  of  Gold !    0,  Hearts  of  Gold ! 

Facing  your  fate  as  the  years  go  by 
With  a  hidden  grief  and  a  silent  cry, 
Dying  gamely  as  bull-dogs  die.  .  .  . 

Hearts  of  Gold !    0,  Hearts  of  Gold ! 

By  the  trouble  that  will  never  tame  you, 
By  the  toil  that  will  never  withhold, 

Whatever  the  dull  ivorld  name  you 
I  know  you  for  Hearts  of  Gold  ! 

Will  Ogilvie. 


THE  MAILS 

The  tail  rods  leap  in  their  bearings, 

They  rise  with  a  rush  and  a  ring  ; 
They  sink  to  the  sound  of  laughter. 
And  hurried  and  short  they  sing — 
We  carry  the  Mails — 
His  Majesty's  Mails — 
Make  way  for  the  mails  of  the  king  I 

We've  swung  her  head  for  the  open  bay, 

And,  spun  by  the  prisoned  steam. 
The  screws  are  drumming  the  miles  away 

Where  the  Ught  star-shadows  dream. 
She  lifts  and  sways  to  the  ocean  swell — 

The  lighthouse  glares  on  high. 
And  the  fisher  lads  in  the  boats  will  tell 

How  they  saw  the  mail  go  by; 
A-thrill  from  keel  to  her  quiv'ring  spars — 

With  the  screw-foam  boiling  white, 
And  black  smoke  dimming  the  watching  stars. 

As  she  soared  through  the  soundless  night. 
"  Full  speed  ahead!  "  shout  the  racing  rods — 

"  Full  speed!  "  and  spray  on  the  rail! 
We'll  heed  no  order  to  stop  save  God's, 

For  we  are  the  Ocean  Mail, 


The  Mails  199 

The  log  fish  shudder  to  hear  the  thud 

And  stamp  of  our  engine  room, 
As  we  thunder  on  with  our  decks  aflood 

Through  the  bhnd  bewildering  gloom, 
A  faint  hoarse  hail,  and  a  warning  light, 

The  whirr  of  our  steering  gear, 
And  we  are  staggering  in  our  flight 

With  a  fishing  boat  just  clear. 
We  carry  the  wealth  of  the  world  I  trow. 

And  the  power  and  fame  of  men — 
The  angry  word,  and  the  lover's  vow. 

All  held  to  the  turn  of  a  pen. 
And  stars  swing  out  in  the  skies  athrill. 

And  the  weary  stars  grow  pale ; 
But  night  and  day  we  are  driving  still 

For  we  are  the  Ocean  Mail. 

The  sailing  craft  and  the  clumsy  tramps 

Loom  up  and  are  lost  astern. 
And  the  stars  of  their  bridge  and  mast-head  lamps 

Are  the  only  stars  that  bum. 
To  the  clash  and  ring  of  the  whirling  steel. 

And  the  crash  and  swing  of  the  seas. 
We  carry  the  grief  that  the  mothers  feel 

As  they  sob  and  pray  on  their  knees. 
The  cares  and  joys  of  the  throbbing  world 

Are  measured  in  piston-strokes, 
When  the  bright  prow-smother  is  split  and  hurled 

And  the  hot  wake  steams  and  smokes, 
To  the  surging  blows  of  the  heavy  throws. 

And  the  slide-valves'  moaning  wail. 
We'll  swing  and  soar  with  our  flues  a-roar, 

For  we  are  the  Ocean  Mail. 

They  watch  for  us  at  the  harbour-mouth, 

And  wait  for  us  on  the  quay, 
Looking  ever  to  East  and  South 

For  our  head-light  on  the  sea. 
And  onward,  surging,  we're  racing  fast 

Where  the  shy  mermaiden  dwells. 
And  the  crested  kings  of  the  deep  ride  past — 

(Oh !  the  pomp  of  the  rolling  swells). 


200      When  the  Guns  go  into  Battle 

Some  lighthouse-men  when  they  see  our  star 

Lift  clear  of  the  starry  maze, 
Will  watch  us  swagger  across  the  bar 

And  swing  to  the  channelled  ways, 
Yet  never  a  sign  or  a  sound  we  give — 

No  blast  of  horn  or  a  hail — 
For  we  must  race  that  the  world  may  live, 

And  we  are  the  Ocean  Mail. 

The  good  screws  labouring  under, 

Laugh  loud  as  they  lift  and  fling 
The  eddying  foam  behind  them, 
And  muttering  low  they  sing — 
Make  way  for  the  Mails — 
His  Majesty's  Mails — 
We  carry  the  mails  for  the  king. 


WHEN  THE  GUNS  GO  INTO  BATTLE 

With  Death  on  the  off-side  lead, 

And  Duty  stern  on  the  limber, 
The  men  of  the  British  breed 

Strain  sinews,  steel,  and  timber. 
With  jangling  bar  and  trace, 

And  trail-eyes  all  a  rattle, 
The  guns  rush  thundering  in  the  race. 
Where  "  last  gun  in  "  is  a  sore  disgrace: 
For  the  drivers  drive  at  a  reckless  pace 

When  the  guns  go  into  battle. 

See  them  breasting  the  rise. 

With  trace  a-sweat  and  steaming, 
Till  the  white  hot  lather  flies 

And  the  axles  roar  complaining ! 
Clatter  1    Bump  !     Bang  !    They  come 

Galloping  hard  on  the  level — 
Never  a  note  of  fife  or  drum — 
Only  the  whirr  of  the  wheels  that  hum, 
(The  fearless  winds  from  the  hills  crouch  dumb 

When  the  guns  crash  on  to  the  revel). 


When  the  Guns  go  into  Battle      201 

The  hard-drawn  trace-chains  twang 

And  the  trace-hooks  grip  and  rattle, 
The  hammering  trail-eyes  bang 

When  the  guns  go  into  battle. 
The  drivers  urge  their  teams 

With  whip  and  speer  and  curses  .  .  . 
A  gun  on  the  foot-hills  glints  and  gleams — 
A  flashing  roar !     And  a  shot  horse  screams — 
I  have  dreamed  what  I  see,  in  horrid  dreams 

Which  the  morning  light  disperses. 

They  have  loosed  the  shot  horse  out, 

And  left  a  gunner  groaning. 
They  are  off  with  never  a  doubt 

Where  the  long  death-song  is  moaning. 
The  limbers  leap  and  sway 

To  the  pole-bars'  noisy  banging — 
One  horse's  breath  is  a  crimson  spray. 
But  he  shakes  his  head  and  pegs  away. 
For  he  does  not  want  his  mates  to  say 

They  saw  his  short-trace  hanging. 

Oh !  hear  the  riotous  beat 

Of  racing  hoofs  on  the  gravel — 
You  can  judge  from  their  flashing  feet 

'Tis  their  utmost  pace  they  travel. 
The  linch-pins  clatter  and  ring — 

The  harness  strains  and  shivers, 
Each  driver  then  is  a  battle-king; 
Each  leaping  gun  a  living  thing. 
And  the  war-god's  song  their  stout  hearts  sing, 

Tho'  maybe  a  boy's  lip  quivers. 

They're  reining  the  right-flank  team — 

The  centre  driver  is  falling, 
By  his  life-blood's  pulsing  stream 

His  last  reveille's  calhng. 
But  a  comrade  takes  his  place. 

And  so,  with  scarce  a  falter. 
The  gun  is  off  again  in  the  race, 
When  "  last  gun  in  "  is  a  sore  disgrace. 
Oh!   the  British  drivers'  rollicking  pace 

Is  a  pace  that  nothing  can  alter. 


202      When  the  Guns  go  into  Battle 

To  the  firing  line  they  sweep! 

Then — "  Action  Front  " — and  swiftly 
The  active  gunners  leap, 

And  the  gun's  unlimbered  deftly. 
The  limber  goes;  it's  "  Waggon  Supply;  " 

The  brass-capped  shell  is  handed 
From  waggon  to  trail ;  and  the  strong  hands  ply 
To  many  a  jest  and  quick  reply, 
While  the  shells  rush  past  with  a  shriek  or  sigh, 

And  the  earth  lifts  where  they  landed. 

Arms  signal  "  Shot!  "     And  the  range? 

"  Eighteen  hundred,  with  fuse  seven!  " 
Ah !   the  men  at  the  trails  will  change 

As  their  bellowing  guns  shake  heaven; 
For,  steadily  spitting  hate. 

The  rifle-bullets  find  them — 
One  moves  too  soon,  and  one  too  late, 
When  the  tough  spades  lift  the  spent  gun's  weight. 
Yet  steady  the  fight,  and  grim  the  fate. 

Though  the  grime  and  the  sweat-streams  blind  them. 

With  Death  on  the  off-side  lead, 

And  Duty  stern  on  the  near  one, 
The  men  of  the  fighting  breed 

Ride  in  where  the  hot  shells  sear  one. 
With  jangling  bar  and  trace. 

And  fast  big-hearted  cattle. 
The  guns  go  thundering  in  the  race 
Where  "  last  gun  in  "  is  a  sore  disgrace; 
Oh !   the  drivers  drive  at  a  madman's  pace 

When  the  guns  go  into  battle. 


The  Cattle  Boats  203 


THE  CATTLE  BOATS 

Four  weeks  from  Monte  Video, 
And  sights  that  few  Men  sees — 

A-prayin'  that  the  clouds  will  blow 
A  healthy  spankin'  breeze; 

With  glass  a-showin\  down  below, 
A  hundred  odd  degrees. 

When  God  made  out  His  shippin'-notes 

And  sent  this  world  to  sea, 
He  must  have  missed  the  cattle-boats 

And  cattle-men  like  me, 
He  meant  all  farms  to  be  ashore, 

Not  sailin'  full  and  by 
With  chokin'  bullocks  sweatin'  gore 

And  layin'  down  to  die. 
He  didn't  authorise  that  hells 

Should  wander  on  His  seas, 
A-liftin'  to  the  swingin'  swells — 

Such  reekin'  hells  as  these. 
That  squatter  out  and  tumble  in 

To  be  the  shippers'  gain. 
With  cattle-keepers  spoutin'  sin, 

And  cattle  mad  with  pain. 

The  sharks  they  slink  around  our  flanks- 

The  sharks  are  very  wise; 
And  oh  I  they  love  the  cattle  tanks 

And  every  beast  that  dies. 

We  ships  'em  at  the  River  Plate, 

And  from  the  States  they  come, 
With  bleedin'  horns  and  starin'  hate — 

Thank  God  the  brutes  are  dumb ! 
We  rig  up  win's'ls  so's  to  try 

And  purify  the  air; 
So  if  they  go  and  drop  and  die. 

That  isn't  our  affair. 
The  stokers  sometimes  feel  that  God 

Is  workin'  wonders  near, 


204  The  Cattle  Boats 

A-strengthenin'  a  fractured  rod 

That's  fightin'  Death  and  Fear. 
But  hoistin'  up  the  dead  and  maimed 

And  dodgin'  every  roll, 
A  man  might  doubt,  nor  be  ashamed 

If  he  has  got  a  soul. 

The  sharks  they  fight  a  bit,  and  then 

They  swim  a-grinnin'  by — 
Instead  of  beasts  it  might  be  me7i  I 

And  oh  1  them  sharks  are  sly. 

We  ain't  in  Heaven's  shippin'-notes, 

And  God  don't  surely  know 
That  such  dam  things  as  cattle-boats 

Are  tradin'  to  and  fro — 
A  plungin'  till  their  stock  is  piled 

In  heaps  all  blood  and  hair, 
And  men  are  killed,  to  put  it  mild, 

For  facin'  Death  too  fair. 
The  coal-ships  most  are  bound  for  where 

Good  coal  is  rulin'  high; 
The  liner's  dinner-bugles  blare; 

She  swaggers  stately  by, 
With  passengers  a-suckin'  hard 

At  pipes  and  strong  cigars: 
They  seem  to  know  a  cattle-yard — 

It  must  be  by  our  spars. 

Pass  round  that  chain  1    No7v,  easy  !    Oh, 
What  cheerful  tasks  are  these — 

A-liftin'  dead-uns from  below 
And  pray  in'  for  a  breeze. 

God  didn't  mean  that  Hell  should  go 
A-howlin'  on  His  seas. 

Will  Lawson. 


The  Christ  of  the  "  Never  "        205 


THE  CHRIST  OF  THE  "  NEVER  " 

With  eyes  that  seem  shrunken  to  pierce 

To  the  awful  horizons  of  land, 
Through  the  haze  of  hot  days,  and  the  fierce 

White  heat-waves  that  flow  on  the  sand; 
Through  the  Never  Land  westward  and  nor'ward, 

Bronzed,  bearded,  and  gaunt  on  the  track, 
Quiet-voiced  and  hard-knuckled,  rides  forward 

The  Christ  of  the  Outer  Out-back. 

For  the  cause  that  will  ne'er  be  relinquished 

Spite  of  all  the  great  cynics  on  earth — 
In  the  ranks  of  the  bush  undistinguished 

By  manner  or  dress — if  by  birth — 
God's  preacher  of  churches  unheeded — 

God's  vineyard  though  barren  the  sod — 
Plain  spokesman  when  spokesman  is  needed — 

Rough  link  'twixt  the  bushman  and  God. 

He  works  where  the  hearts  of  all  nations 

Are  withered  in  flame  from  the  sky. 
Where  the  sinners  work  out  their  salvations 

In  a  hell-upon-earth  ere  they  die. 
In  the  camp  or  the  lonely  hut  lying 

In  a  waste  that  seems  out  of  God's  sight. 
He's  the  doctor — the  mate  of  the  dying 

Through  the  smothering  heat  of  the  night. 

By  his  work  in  the  hells  of  the  shearers. 

Where  the  drinking  is  ghastly  and  grim, 
Where  the  roughest  and  worst  of  his  hearers 

Have  hstened  bare-headed  to  him. 
By  his  paths  through  the  parched  desolation, 

His  rides  and  the  terrible  tramps; 
By  the  hunger,  the  thirst,  the  privation 

Of  his  work  on  the  furthermost  camps; 
By  his  worth  in  the  light  that  shall  search  men 

And  prove — ay!  and  justify  each — 
I  place  him  in  front  of  all  churchmen 

Who  feel  not,  who  know  not,  but  preach. 

Henry  Lawson. 


2o6  Camp  Fire  Musings 


CAMP  FIRE  MUSINGS 

I 

The  camp  fire  plays  upon  the  trees 

In  waves  of  warm  caressin'  light, 

And  on  the  mild  and  scented  breeze 

Come  all  the  whispers  of  the  night, 

And  now  and  then  the  dead  leaves  fall 

With  just  a  rustle  soft  and  low, 
But  what's  the  meanin'  of  it  all, 
I  dunno! 

II 

From  all  around  me  I  can  hear 
The  sounds  of  things  that  live  and  die, 

And  now  and  then  from  somewhere  near 
The  curlew's  sad  and  hauntin'  cry. 

Whilst  near  the  fire  here  I  sprawl, 
With  thoughts  that  ever  come  and  go. 

But  what's  the  meanin'  of  it  all, 
I  dunno! 

Ill 
There's  such  a  lot  of  things  that  seem 

Beyond  the  range  of  human  ken. 
The  moon  that  shines,  the  stars  that  gleam, 

The  sun  that  warms  the  heart  o'  men. 
The  laugh  that  cheers,  the  tears  that  fall, 

The  joys  and  grief  that  come  and  go, 
But  what's  the  meanin'  of  'em  all, 
I  dunno! 

IV 

One  hears  again  and  yet  again 

Of  what  a  fellah  ought  to  be. 
But  still  it  don't  seem  very  plain. 

Leastways,  it  don't  seem  so  to  me; 
I  s'pose  the  watchword  "  Duty's  Call  " 

Should  mark  the  road  one  has  to  go, 
But  what  one's  duty  is  at  all, 
I  dunno ! 


Camp  Fire  Musings  207 


It's  hard  to  mind  what  preachers  say: 

Give  unto  every  man  his  due^ 
And  always  act  in  such  a  way 

As  you  would  have  men  act  to  you ! 
If  any  man  with  greedy  lust 

Tries  hard  to  score  and  lay  you  low, 

Well,  ain't  it  right  to  "  have  "  him  fust? 

I  dunno! 

VI 

I  s'pose  for  some  the  path  of  life 
Lies  smooth  and  easy  as  they  tread, 

For  others  there's  the  storm  and  strife 
And  dark  clouds  frownin'  overhead; 

No  wonder  that  we  trip  and  fall 
Or  at  the  best  go  very  slow, 

And  what's  the  meanin'  of  it  all, 
I  dunno! 

VII 

The  good  old  bush  is  pretty  rough, 
And  when  my  spirits  fade  and  die 

I  sometimes  think  I've  had  enough. 
It  seems  no  sort  o'  use  to  try ; 

The  mornin's  break,  the  evenin's  fall, 
And  I — well,  what  have  I  to  show? 

Can  man  e'er  dare  to  hope  at  all? 
I  dunno. 

VIII 

And  yet  as  on  my  back  I  lie 

And  watch  the  bright  stars  gleamin'  there, 
I  fancy  that  beyond  the  sky 

Must  be  a  land  where  doubt  and  care 
Have  no  more  power  to  enthral, 

A  land  where  tired  spirits  go 
To  rest  in  peace,  forgettin'  all! 
I  dunno! 


2o8  The  Stockrider 


THE  STOCKlllDER 

Long  and  lean  and  wiry, 

Hollow-cheeked  and  brown, 
Bushbred  and  he  stays  there, 

Wants  no  bloomin'  town; 
Got  no  city  manners, 

Couldn't  if  he  tried ! 
Watch  him  in  the  saddle. 

See  the  beggar  ride ! 

Hear  him  telling  stories, 

Yams  of  long  ago ; 
See  him  with  the  children 

Laughing  soft  and  low. 
Just  a  great  big  baby. 

Mouth  all  gaping  wide, 
Fetch  along  a  raw  'un 

See  the  beggar  ride ! 


Watch  his  big  eyes  moisten 

Then  light  up  with  fun, 
Reading  verses  writ  by 

Bartie  Paterson. 
Swears  by  good  old  Bartie, 

'Way  down  Sydney  side, 
Says  he  knows  the  biz'ness 

He  knows  how  to  ride — 

Hear  the  beggar  singing 

Songs  of  dreadful  woe, 
Telling  how  his  mother 

Left  him  long  ago ; 
Hear  his  cracked  voice  shaking, 

Droning  how  she  died; 
Stop  the  beggar  squalking. 

Shove  him  up  to  ride ! 

Watch  him  after  cattle, 
When  there's  work  to  do, 


The  Stockrider 

Mother,  home,  forgotten 
Tea  and  damper  too! 

See  his  white  teeth  gleaming, 
Taking  in  his  stride 

Rocks  and  fallen  timber, 
Lord,  to  see  him  ride! 

Mark  the  maddened  brumby 

Bucking  all  he  knows; 
See  the  grim-faced  rider 

Blood  from  ears  to  nose; 
Never  yet  buck-jumper 

Bound  in  hair  and  hide 
Knows  the  trick  to  shift  him ! 

Gosh,  to  see  him  ride ! 

Hear  him  on  the  ranges 

Make  the  stock  whip  crack, 
Racing  down  the  gullies 

Straight  to  hell  and  back. 
Hear  the  flint  stones  rattle 

Down  the  mountain  side. 
Hold  your  breath  and  wonder- 

That's  the  way  to  ride. 

Talk  of  yelling  Cossack 

Riding  on  his  head  I 
See  the  thing  he  rests  on, 

Bloomin'  four-post  bed! 
Clever  tricks  for  children ! 

That  can't  be  denied; 
Send  him  to  Australia, 

There  he'll  learn  to  ride ! 

Just  a  stalwart  giant 

Standing  six  foot  two, 
Simple  as  a  baby. 

Loyal,  staunch,  and  true; 
Put  him  in  the  saddle. 

Hear  the  world  decide, 
"  Hats  off  to  the  master, 

He's  the  boy  to  ride." 


209 


2IO  The  Water-Bellow 


THE  WATER-BELLOW 

I 

Twenty  miles  to  travel 

Through  tangled  scrub  and  rock, 
Twenty  miles  to  travel 

And  mostl}'  all  the  Stock 
Comprised  of  sickly  heifers 

With  sickly  calves  at  heel, 
Well,  sonny,  you  can  fancy 

Exactly  how  I  feel! 

II 

Twenty  miles  to  travel ! 

I'd  call  it  easy  quite 
If  we  could  camp  till  ev'ning 

And  take  the  road  at  night. 
But  in  this  rocky  country 

One  has  to  go  by  day. 
And  guard  the  beasts  at  night-time, 

Or  else  they're  bound  to  stray. 

in 
Yes,  now  they're  going  nicely, 

I  wish  that  it  would  last, 
But  out  across  the  sand-hills. 

The  sun  is  rising  fast. 
The  heat  will  soon  be  awful 

The  dust  be  something  worse. 
And  added  to  our  troubles 

The  want  of  water  curse ! 

IV 

Just  mark  those  weary  heifers 

And  note  their  heaving  flanks, 
We'll  have  a  job,  my  sonny. 

To  keep  them  in  the  ranks; 
And  look  too  at  the  leaders. 

Observe  their  artful  knack 
Of  stringing  out  for  water. 

Just  turn  and  ride  them  back! 


The  Water-Bellow  2 1 1 


Ah !  now  you  know  what  heat  is, 

The  sun's  just  blazing  down, 
You'll  have  a  yarn  to  tell  'em 

When  you  get  back  to  town, 
Of  how  with  cattle  dying 

You,  in  your  manhood  strong. 
Just  proudly  rode  among  'em 

And  flogged  the  brutes  along! 

IV 

Yes — flogged  'em!    Lord,  it's  awful. 

And  makes  me  sick  with  shame, 
I  mean  to  chuck  it,  sonny. 

And  you  can  do  the  same — 
We'll  follow  them  on  foot,  lad. 

And  see  what  we  can  do 
By  driving  them  with  branches. 

Perchance  we'll  get  them  through. 

VII 

Perchance  we'll  get  them  through,  lad, 

Well,  we  can  only  try, 
But  half  of  them  look  ready 

To  settle  down  and  die — 
Ah,  see  that  brindled  heifer 

Just  give  your  whip  full  play. 
She's  down,  but  has  the  cunning 

To  try  to  slip  away! 

VIII 

Another  mile — Good  Heavens! 

Why  what  is  that  I  hear? 
Yes — there  it  is  again,  lad, 

Like  music  on  the  ear: 
The  "  water-bellow,"  sonny. 

As  sure  as  eggs  is  eggs, 
D'ye  see  that  stumbling  heifer 

Rise  up  upon  her  legs. 


212  The  Water-Bellow 


IX 

Just  listen  to  the  crooning 

That's  passing  thro'  the  lanks, 
D'ye  see  their  eyeballs  flaming, 

D'ye  note  their  heaving  flanks, 
The  leaders  in  the  vanguard 

Have  passed  the  word  along, 
They  sniff  the  water,  sonny, 

And  that's  their  joyful  song. 


Great  Scott,  it  acts  like  magic, 

They're  going  at  the  run. 
We'll  have  to  ride  like  blazes 

And  see  what  can  be  done 
To  steady  them  a  trifle, 

Or  else  it  will  be  found 
That  in  the  mad  confusion 

Some  hundreds  will  be  drowned. 

XI 

Too  late !  they're  mad  for  water 

And  naught  can  hold  them  back. 
You  needn't  fuss  or  worry 

To  make  your  stock  whip  crack. 
They  mean  to  get  there,  sonny, 

Despite  what  we  can  do, 
So  we  must  sit  and  pray,  lad, 

That  half  come  safely  through! 

XII 

D'ye  see  the  water  seething, 

As  in  the  leaders  burst. 
It  must  be  simply  gorgeous 

To  quench  so  great  a  thirst! 
Just  listen  to  their  roaring, 

The  gruntings  and  the  din. 
Let's  pray  they  finish,  sonny, 

Before  the  calves  get  in. 


Romance  213 


XIII 

Hurrah !  they're  crawhng  out,  lad, 

The  calves  can  have  their  turn, 
Ah !  there  they  go,  my  sonny. 

See  how  the  waters  chum. 
Thank  God,  the  danger's  over 

And  on  the  other  side 
We'll  muster  without  losing 

A  single  bloomin'  hide, 

XIV 

Well,  now  you  see  what  happens 

And  know  the  sort  o'  job 
A  man  has  got  to  tackle 

When  trav'lling  with  a  mob; 
Phew!  pass  the  bacca,  sonny, 

The  sun  is  dropping  down ; 
Gad,  there's  a  yarn  to  tell  'em 

When  you  get  back  to  town. 

Guy  Eden. 


ROMANCE 

They  say  that  fair  Romance  is  dead,  and  in  her  cold  grave 

lying  low. 
The  green  grass  waving  o'er  her  head,  the  mould  upon  her 

breast  of  snow; 
Her  voice,  they  say,  is  dumb  for  aye,  that  once  was  clarion 

— clear  and  high — 
But  in  their  hearts,  their  frozen  hearts,  they  know  that 

bitterly  they  lie. 

Her  brow  of  white,  that  was  with  bright  rose-garland  in  the 

old  days  crowned, 
Is  now,  they  say,  all  shorn  of  light,  and  with  a  fatal  fillet 

bound. 
Her  eyes  divine  no  more  shall  shine  to  lead  the  hardy  Knight' 

and  good 
Unto  the  Castle  Perilous,  beyond  the  dark  Enchanted  Wood. 


2  14  Romance 

And  do  they  deem,  these  fools  supreme,  whose  iron  wheels 
unceasing  whirr, 

That,  in  their  rushing  age  of  Steam,  there  is  no  longer  room 
for  Her? 

That,  as  they  hold  the  key  of  gold,  that  shuts  or  opens  Mam- 
mon's Den, 

Romance  has  vanished  from  the  earth  and  left  the  homes  and 
hearts  of  men? 

Yea,  some  there  be  who  fain  would  see  this  consummation 

drear. 
And  set  their  God  Machinery  with  iron  rod  to  rule  the  year. 
They  get  their  way,  day  after  day,  with  fonvard-staring 

famished  eyes. 
Whose  level  glances  never  stray — fixed  fast  upon  a  sordid 

prize ! 

The  sun  may  rise  in  god-like  guise,  the  stars  like  burningseraphs 

shine. 
But  ah,  for  those  sad  souls  unwise,  nor  Earth  nor  Heaven 

bears  a  sign. 
All  visions  fair,  in  earth  or  air,  they  gaze  upon  with  sullen 

scorn. 
God  knows  His  own  great  business  best;  He  only  knows  why 

they  were  born. 

They  never  saw,  with  sacred  awe,  the  Vision  of  the  Starry 

Stream, 
That  is  the  source  of  Love  and  Law;  they  never  dreamt  the 

wondrous  dream; 
They  never  heard  the  Magic  Bird,  whose  strains  the  poet's 

soul  entrance; 
Their  souls  are  in  their  money-bags — What  should  they  know 

of  fair  Romance  ? 

She  still  is  here,  the  fair  and  dear,  and  walks  the  Earth  with 

noiseless  feet; 
Her  eyes  are  deep,  and  dark  and  clear,  her  scarlet  mouth  is 

honey-sweet; 
A  chaplet  fair  of  roses  rare  and  lordly  laurel  crowns  her  head; 
Her  path  is  over  land  and  sea :  she  is  not  dead ;  she  is  not  dead. 


Romance  215 

On  roads  of  clay,  'neath  skies  of  grey,  though  fate  compel  us 
to  advance, 

Beyond  the  turning  of  the  way  there  sits  and  waits  for  us 
Romance. 

Around  yon  cape  of  lion-shape,  that  meets  the  wave  with  lion- 
brow, 

A  ship  sails  in  from  lands  unknown;  Romance  stands  shining 
on  her  prow. 

At  dead  of  night,  a  fiery  light  from  out  the  heart  of  darkness 

glares ; 
The  engine,  rocking  in  its  flight,  once  more  into  the  darkness 

flares ; 
The  train  flies  fast,  the  bridge  is  past;    white  faces  for  a 

moment  gleam — 
And  at  the  window  sits  Romance,  and  gazes  down  into  the 

stream. 

When  first  the  child,  with  wonder  wild,  looks  on  the  world 

with  shining  eyes, 
Romance  becomes  his  guardian  mild,  and  tells  to  him  her 

stories  wise. 
And  when  the  light  fades  into  night,  and  ended  is  their  life's 

short  span, 
To  other  wonder- wo  rids  she  leads  the  spirit  of  the  Dying  Man. 

Right  grim  gods  be  Reality,  and  iron-handed  Circumstance. 
Cast  off  their  fetters,  friend !     Break  free  and  seek  the  shrine 

of  fair  Romance. 
And  when  dark  days  with  cares  would  craze  your  brain^  then 

she  will  take  your  hand. 
And  lead  you   on  by  greenwood  ways  unto  a  green  and 

pleasant  land. 

There  you  will  see  brave  company,  all  making  gay  and 

gallant  cheer — 
Blanaid  the  Fair,  the  Deirdre  rare,  and  Gold  Gudrun  and 

Guinevere; 
And  MerUn  wise,  with  dreaming  eyes,  and  Tristram  of  the 

Harp  and  Bow; 
While  from  the  Wood  of  Broceliande  the  horns  of  Elfland 

lively  blow. 

Victor  Daley, 


2 1  6  The  Women  of  the  West 


THE  WOMEN  OF  THE  W^ST 

They  left  the  vine-wreathed  cottage  and  the  mansion  on  the 

hill, 
The  houses  in  the  busy  streets  where  life  is  never  still, 
The  pleasures  of  the  city  and  the  friends  they  cherished  best: 
In  love  they  faced  the  wilderness — the  Women  of  the  V\'est. 

The  roar  and  rush  and  fever  of  the  city  died  away, 

And  the  old-time  joys  and  faces — they  were  gone  for  many  a 

day; 
In  their  place  the  lurching  coach  wheel,  or  the  creaking 

bullock  chains. 
O'er  the  everlasting  sameness  of  the  never-ending  plains. 

In  the  slab-built  zinc-roofed  homestead  of  some  lately  taken 

run. 
In  the  tent  beside  the  bankment  of  some  railway  newly  begun, 
In  the  huts  on  new  selections,  in  the  camps  of  man's  unrest. 
On  the  frontier  of  the  nation,  live  the  Women  of  the  West. 

The  red  sun  robs  their  beauty,  and  in  weariness  and  pain, 
The  slow  years  steal  the  nameless  grace  that  never  comes 

again ; 
And  there  are  hours  men  cannot  soothe,  and  words  men 

cannot  say — 
The  nearest  woman's  face  may  be  a  hundred  miles  away. 

The  wild  bush  holds  the  secret  of  their  longings  and  desires. 
When  the  white  stars  in  reverence  light  their  holy  altar  fires, 
And  silence,  like  the  touch  of  God,  sinks  deep  into  the  breast — 
Perchance  He  hears  and  understands  the  Women  of  the  West. 

For  them  no  trumpet  sounds  the  call,  no  poet  plies  his  arts — 
They  only  hear  the  beating  of  their  gallant  loving  hearts. 
But  they  have  sung  with  silent  lives,  the  song  all  songs  above — 
The  loftiness  of  sacrifice,  the  dignity  of  love. 


Babyl 


on  217 

Well  have  we  held  our  father's  creed,  No  call  has  passed  us 

We  faced  and  fought  the  wilderness,  we  sent  our  sons  to  die. 
And  we  have  hearts  to  do  and  dare,  and  yet,  o'er  all  the  rest. 
The  hearts  that  made  the  Nation  were  the  Women  of  the 
West. 

George  Essex  Evans. 


BABYLON 

{The  City  of  Wild  Contrasts) 

0  CITY  of  wild  contrasts,  meetings  strange. 

More  magical  than  old  Arabian  tales, 

More  wondrous  than  a  youthful  poet's  dreams, 

More  common  than  a  harlot  in  her  paint, 

More  soul-benumbing  than  a  factory's  wheels, 

So  beautiful  and  fair,  so  wan  and  poor, 

So  brave  and  gallant,  loathsome  and  so  foul ; 

Where  Yesterday  rubs  shoulders  with  To-day, 

And  old  Romance  and  dreary  Common-place — 

0 !  city  of  wild  contrasts,  meetings  strange ! 

Pacing  the  Strand,  that  By-way  of  the  World, 
The  prying  Yankee,  there  inquisitive 
(His  women-folk  with  guide-books  all  a-row), 
Spies  out  his  Broadway  partner  by  the  church 
Where  Johnson  prayed;  and  with  a  nasal  note 
They  pass  together  to  the  Templar's  fane ! 

The  sun-dried  squatter  from  his  Austral  run, 
Yearning  to  meet  again  his  old-time  friend 
Whose  sheep  once  browsed  the  salt-bush  with  his  own, 
Takes  ship  to  London,  stalks  past  Bourse  and  band, 
Sees  him,  and  cooees  'neath  Paul's  glorious  dome. 


21 8  The  Cynic  of  the  Woods 


OVER  THE  SEA 

{The  Ballade  of  the  Children  of  New  Worlds) 

Over  the  sea,  where  our  kinsfolk  dwell 

In  cities  built  of  their  golden  gain, 
By  Maori  lakes,  by  the  South  Sea's  swell, 

In  the  Austral  bush,  or  on  station  plain. 

However  the  elders  may  fume  and  complain. 
The  children  are  singing  and  shouting  with  glee 

In  Shakespeare's  tongue — to  the  gay  refrain 
Of  old  English  pastimes — over  the  Sea! 

Ye  who  hold  forth  in  your  clubs  in  Pall  Mall, 

Or  squabble  o'  nights  in  the  Parliament's  fane, 
0  dull  legislators,  so  anxious  to  tell 

How  to  bind  these  lands  in  this  bountiful  reign, 

Hark  to  these  voices  across  the  main ! 
Grey  sophists  be  still — you  will  never  agree; 

But  the  bonny  young  bairns  may  be  weaving  a  chain 
To  link  us  at  Home  to  those  over  the  Sea ! 

They  can  unite  us — aye  firmly  and  well — 

In  the  bonds  of  a  love  that  should  ever  remain; 
The  youngsters  who  romp  in  a  sweet  English  dell, 

Or  rouse  the  bush  echoes  again  and  again. 

They  are  our  law-givers  honest  and  sane. 
Ye  then  who  pray  that  our  flag  may  fly  free. 

That  England's  proud  might  may  ne'er  weaken  and  wane, 
List  to  the  little  ones — over  the  Sea ! 


THE  CYNIC  OF  THE  WOODS 
{The  young  poet  and  the  laughing  fackass) 

I  COME  from  busy  haunts  of  men, 

With  Nature  to  commune. 
Which  you,  it  seems,  observe,  and  then 

Laugh  out,  like  some  buffoon. 


The  Cynic  of  the  Woods  219 

You  cease,  and  through  the  forest  drear 

I  pace  with  sense  of  awe, 
When  once  again  upon  my  ear 

Breaks  in  your  harsh  guffaw. 

I  look  aloft  to  yonder  place 

Where  placidly  you  sit, 
And  tell  you  to  your  very  face, 

I  do  not  hke  your  wit. 

I'm  in  no  mood  for  blatant  jest, 

I  hate  your  mocking  song, 
My  weary  soul  demands  the  rest 

Denied  to  it  so  long. 

Besides,  there  passes  through  my  brain 

The  poet's  love  of  fame — 
Why  should  not  an  Australian  strain 

Immortalise  my  name? 

And  so  I  pace  the  forest  drear. 

Filled  with  a  sense  of  awe. 
When  louder  still  upon  my  ear 

Breaks  in  your  harsh  guffaw. 

Yet  truly.  Jackass,  it  may  be 

My  words  are  all  unjust; 
You  laugh  at  what  you  hear  and  see, 

And  laugh  because  you  must. 

You've  seen  Man,  civilised  and  rude, 

Of  varying  race  and  creed. 
The  black-skinned  savage  almost  nude. 

The  EngUshman  in  tweed. 

And  here  the  lubra  ^  oft  has  strayed 

To  rest  beneath  the  boughs, 
Where  now,  perchance,  some  fair-haired  maid 

May  hear  her  lover's  vows. 
^  Black  woman. 


220  Wool   Is   Up 


While  you,  from  yonder  lofty  height, 

Have  studied  human  ways, 
And  with  a  satirist's  delight 

Dissected  hidden  traits. 

Laugh  on,  laugh  on !     Your  rapturous  shout 

Again  on  me  intrudes; 
But  I  have  found  your  secret  out, 

0  Cynic  of  the  Woods. 

Well !  I  confess,  grim  mocking  elf, 

Howe'er  I  rhapsodise. 
That  I  am  more  in  love  with  self 

Than  with  the  earth  or  skies. 

So  I  will  lay  the  epic  by 

That  I  had  just  begun. 
Why  should  I  babble?    Let  me  lie 

Ajid  bask  here  in  the  sun. 

And  let  me  own,  were  I  endowed 

With  your  fine  humorous  sense, 
I  too  should  laugh — aye,  quite  as  loud, 

At  all  Man's  vain  pretence. 

A.  Pachett  Martin, 


WOOL  IS  UP 

Earth  o'erflows  with  nectared  gladness, 

All  creation  teems  with  joy; 
Banished  be  each  thought  of  sadness. 

Life  for  me  has  no  alloy. 
Fill  a  bumper,  drain  a  measure. 

Pewter,  goblet,  tankard,  cup, 
Testifying  thus  our  pleasure 

At  the  news  that  "  wool  is  up." 

Thwart  the  empires,  'neath  the  oceans. 
Swiftly  speeds  the  living  fire; 

Who  shall  tell  what  wild  emotions 
Spring  from  out  that  thridden  wire? 


Wool  Is  Up  221 

"  Jute  is  lower,  copper  weaker," 

This  will  break  poor  neighbour  Jupp; 

But  for  me,  I  shout  "  Eureka!  " 
Wealth  is  mine — for  wool  is  up. 

What  care  I  for  jute  or  cotton, 

Sugar,  copper,  hemp,  or  flax, 
Reeds  like  these  are  often  rotten, 

Turn  to  rods  for  owner's  backs. 
Fortune,  ha !  I  have  thee  holden 

In  what  Scotia  calls  "  a  grup," 
All  my  fleeces  now  are  golden, 

Full  troy  weight — for  wool  is  up. 

I  will  dance  the  gay  fandango, 

Though  to  me  its  steps  be  strange, 
Doubts  and  fears,  you  all  can  hang  go, 

I  will  cut  a  dash  on  "  Change." 
Atra  Cura,  you  will  please  me 

By  dismounting  from  my  crup — 
Crupper,  you  no  more  shall  tease  me, 

Pray  get  down, — for  wool  is  up. 

Jane  shall  have  that  stylish  bonnet 

Which  my  scanty  purse  denied; 
Long  she  set  her  heart  upon  it. 

She  shall  wear  it  now  with  pride. 
I  will  buy  old  Bumper's  station, 

Reign  as  king  at  Gerringhup, 
For  my  crest,  a  bust  of  Jason, 

With  this  motto,  "  Wool  is  up!  " 

I  will  keep  a  stud  extensive; 

Bolter,  here,  I'll  have  those  greys, 
Those  Sir  George  deemed  too  expensive, 

You  can  send  them — with  the  bays. 
Coursing,  I  should  rather  think  so; 

Yes,  I'll  take  that  "  Lightning  "  pup: 
Jones,  my  boy,  you  needn't  wink  so, 

I  can  stand  it — wool  is  up. 


222  Wool  Is  Down 

Wifey,  love,  you're  looking  charming, 

Years  with  you  are  but  as  days; 
We  must  have  a  grand  house-warming 

When  those  painters  mend  their  ways. 
Let  the  ball-room  be  got  ready, 

Bid  our  friends  to  dance  and  sup. 
Bother,  how  can  I  go  steady? 

I'm  worth  thousands — wool  is  up ! 


WOOL  IS  DOWN 

Blacker  than  e'er  the  inky  waters  roll 

Upon  the  gloomy  shores  of  sluggish  Styx, 
A  surge  of  sorrow  laps  my  leaden  soul, 

For  that  which  was  at  "  two  "  is  now  "  one  six." 
"  Come  disappointment,  come,"  as  has  been  said 

By  some  one  else,  who  quailed  'neath  fortune's  frown. 
'*  Stab  to  the  core  the  heart  that  once  has  bled," 

For  "  heart  "  read  "  pocket  " — wool,  ah!  wool  is  down. 

"  And  in  the  lowest  deep,  a  lower  deep," 

Thou  sightless  seer,  indeed  it  may  be  so. 
The  road  too  well  we  know  is  somewhat  steep, 

And  who  shall  stay  us  when  that  road  we  go  ? 
Thrice  cursed  wire,  whose  lightning  strikes  to  blast. 

Whose  babbling  tongue  proclaims  throughout  the  town 
The  news,  which  being  ill,  has  travelled  fast. 

The  dire  intelligence — that  wool  is  down. 

A  rise  in  copper  and  a  rise  in  jute, 

A  fall  alone  in  wool,  but  what  a  fall ! 
Jupp  must  have  made  a  pile  this  trip,  the  brute. 

He  don't  deserve  such  splendid  luck  at  all. 
The  smiles  for  him,  for  me  the  scalding  tears. 

He's  worth  ten  thousand  if  he's  worth  a  crown; 
While  I — untimely  shorn  by  fate's  hard  shears — 

Feel  that  my  game  is  up  when  wool  is  down. 


Wool  Is  Down  223 

Bolter,  take  back  those  prancing  greys  of  thine, 
Remove  as  well  the  vanquished  warrior's  bays, 

My  fortunes  are  not  stable,  they  decline; 
Aye,  even  horses  taunt  me  with  their  neighs. 

And  thou  sweet  puppy  of  the  "  Lightning  "  breed, 
Through  whose  fleet  limbs  I  pictured  me  renown. 

Hie  howling  to  thy  former  home  with  speed, 
^    Thy  course  with  me  is  up — for  wool  is  down. 

Why,  Jane,  what's  this? — this  pile  of  letters  here? 

Such  waste  of  stamps  is  really  very  sad. 
Your  birthday  ball?    Oh  come,  not  twice  a  year; 

Good  gracious  me!  the  woman  must  be  mad. 
You'd  better  save  expense  at  once,  that's  clear, 

And  send  a  bellman  to  invite  the  town ! 
There — there — don't  cry,  forgive  my  temper,  dear. 

But  put  those  letters  up — for  wool  is  down. 

My  station  "  Gerringhup,"  yes,  that  must  go. 

Its  sheep,  its  oxen,  and  its  kangaroos; 
First  'twas  the  home  of  blacks,  the  whites  we  know, 

Now  is  it  a  dwelling  but  for  "  the  blues." 
With  it  I  leave  the  brotherhood  of  Cash 

Who  form  Australian  fashion's  tinsel  crown; 
I  tread  along  the  devious  paths  of  Smash, 

I  go  where  wool  has  gone — down,  ever  down. 

Thus  ends  my  dream  of  greatness — not  for  me 

The  silken  couch,  the  banquet,  and  the  rout. 
They're  flown — the  base  residium  will  be 

A  mutton  chop  and  half  a  pint  of  stout — 
Yet  will  I  hold  a  corner  in  my  soul 

Where  Hope  may  nestle  safe  from  Fortune's  frown. 
Thou  hoodwinked  jade!  my  heart  remaineth  whole — 

I'll  keep  my  spirits  up — though  wool  be  down. 

Garnet  Walch. 


224  The  Ruined  Homestead 


THE  SHIP 

BouND'to  the  wharf, 

Dull-lapped  on  timid  tides, 

Thy  fierce  fires  quenched  and  thy  great  engines  stilled, 

The  splendid  soul  of  thee  at  length  asleep, 

Thy  latest  task  fulfilled, 

Thou  toy  and  tyrant  of  the  infinite  deep, 

Devourer  of  vast  distances  that  dwarf 

Our  parish  miles  to  inches !  .  .  . 

Art  thou  content,  0  Ship? 

0,  great  mute  ship  that  answerest  not,  where  is 

Thy  terrible  voice. 

That  screamed  derision  through  the  thunderous  night 

And  hurled  defiance  at  the  hurricane, 

Thy  voice  that  mocked  the  surges  and  outshrilled 

The  shrieking  army  of  the  dead  sea-folk 

Who  ride  for  ever  damned  upon  the  wrack 

Of  howling  storms? — where  is  thy  mighty  voice 

That  pealed  tremendously  across  the  dark 

That  guards  the  gates  of  hell, 

0  great  mute  ship? 

Bound  to  the  wharf, 

Soft-lulled  by  timid  tides. 

With  fierce  fires  quenched  and  great  grim  engines  stilled, 

All  dead  and  silent,  ponderous  and  dumb. 

Art  thou  content,  0  Ship ! 

Frank  Morton. 


THE  RUINED  HOMESTEAD 

How  broodingly,  this  gentle  day, 
The  sunshine  lies  amongst  the  gorse 

Of  this  old  fence  beside  the  way 

That  skirts  the  farm  of  David  Morse: 


The  Ruined  Homestead  225 

But  David  tarries  here  no  more, 

Nor  any  of  his  kith  or  kin; 
Half-hingeless  hangs  the  farmhouse  door, 

And  desolation  dwells  within. 


The  roof-trees  of  the  house  and  sheds 

Are  bent:  the  rafters,  here  and  there. 
Stick  through  the  rotting  thatch,  and  shreds 

Of  fastening  whiten  in  the  air: 
No  quiet  cows  in  the  pastures  feed, 

The  fences  all  in  ruin  lie : 
And,  where  the  clover  grew,  the  weed 

Has  reigned  for  many  a  year  gone  by. 

A  starling's  song  from  one  lone  tree 

In  mellow  snatches  sweetly  comes, 
While  here  and  there  a  vagrant  bee, 

Drawn  by  the  yellow  gorse  blooms,  hums; 
And  spiders'  webs,  where  many  a  fiy 

Has  met  its  doom,  the  gorse  enlace; 
But  nothing  else  can  ear  or  eye 

Detect  of  life  about  the  place. 

Like  follows  like;  and  David's  life 

Was  one  long  wreck,  through  witless  ways, 
And,  only  for  his  wiser  wife, 

The  end  had  come  in  earlier  days; 
But  she,  with  her  superior  sense. 

And  planning  early,  plodding  late, 
Contrived  to  earn  and  save  the  pence 

Required  to  buy  delay  from  Fate. 

On  this  lean  farm  for  thirty  years 

The  weary  strife  was  carried  on, 
With  heart-aches  too  intense  for  tears, 

And  hopes  that  gleamed  and  then  were  gone; 
But  she — the  brave,  forbearing  wife — 

Was  not  the  woman  to  despair, 
Or  try  to  mend  a  rueful  life 

By  crying  forth  its  cark  and  care. 


226  Spring  Morning 

So  year  by  year  she  played  her  part 

With  steady  hand  and  steadfast  mind, 
Whereof  the  memory  through  my  heart 

Keeps  moaning  like  a  wintry  wind ; 
For  I — am  Mary  Morse's  son 

(A  prodigal  returned  to-day), 
And  know  how  well  her  work  was  done, 

Yet  how  it  wore  her  soul  away. 

John  Christie. 


THE  REAPER 

Watching  the  rhythmic  reaper  from  the  hill — 
Like  a  green  sea  the  broken  waves  of  wheat 
Splashed  with  red,  wilting  flowers  at  their  feet — 
Two  lovers  in  the  twilight  lingered  still. 

A  breathing  poppy  fluttered  to  the  air: 
She  touched  it  with  her  curling  finger-tips, 
And  stooping,  pressed  to  it  her  vivid  lips — 
'Twas  like  a  butterfly  imprisoned  there. 

"  Thrice  blessed  one,"  said  she, "  that  freshly  blows 
Safe  from  the  swift  destroyer's  icy  breath  " — 
Her  lover  whispered, "  May  the  scythe  of  death 
So  spare  the  place  whereon  my  flower  grows." 

Lala  Fisher. 


SPRING  MORNING 

What  clearer  than  this  earth  and  air? 
The  birds  go  flying  everywhere 

As  I  ride. 
See  the  black  swans,  white-vanned  pair, 
Soaring  from  the  pale  swamp  there 

Up  the  wide 
Lower  heaven,  so  sweet  and  fair. 


Settlers  227 

Harkj  the  pulsing  magpie  calls 
His  melodious  intervals 

As  I  ride: 
So  my  soul  beyond  the  walls, 
Where  her  last  low  fetter  falls 

Glorified, 
Sings  to  God  glad  madrigalsi 

F.  W.  AdamSw 


SETTLERS 

If  the  gods  of  Hellas  do  not  tread  our  shaggy  mountains — 
Stately  white  and  golden,  with  unfathomable  eyes: — 

Yet  the  lesser  spirits  haunt  our  forests  and  our  fountains, 
Seas  and  green-brown  river-pools  no  thirsty  summer  dries. 

Never  through  the  tangled  scrub  we  see  Diana  glisten, 
Silver-limbed  and  crescent-crowned  and  swift  to  hear  and 
turn, 

When  the  chase  is  hottest  and  the  woods  are  waked  to  listen, 
While  her  maidens  follow  running  knee-deep  in  the  fern. 

Of  the  great  gods  only  Pan  walks  hourly  here — Pan  only. 
In  the  warm  dark  gullies,  in  the  thin  clear  upland  air, 

On  the  windy  sea-cliffs  and  the  plains  apart  and  lonely, 
By  the  tingling  silence  you  may  know  that  he  is  there. 

But  the  sea  nymphs  make  our  shores  shine  gay  with  light  and 
laughter. 
At  the  sunset  where  the  waves  are  mingled  milk  and  fire. 
You  may  see  them  very  plain,  and  in  the  darkness  after 
You  may  hear  them  singing  with  the  stars'  great  golden 
choir. 

When  the  earth  is  mad  with  song  some  blue  September 
morning. 
In  the  grove  of  myall  trees  that  rustle  green  and  grey. 
Through  the  plumes  of  trailing  leaves  hung  meet  for  her 
adorning. 
See  a  dark-browed  Dryad  peep,  and  swiftly  draw  away ! 


2  28  September 

In  the    deep-cut  river    beds    set  thick    with    moss-grown 
boulders, 
Where  the  wagtails  come  to  drink  and  balance  lest  they 
fall, 
You  may  see  the  gleaming  of  a  Naiad's  slippery  shoulders, 
And  the  water  sUding  cool  and  quiet  over  all. 

Through  the  narrow  gorges  where  the  flying-foxes  muster, 
Hanging  from  the  Kurrapongs  like  monstrous  magic  grapes. 

Something  spreads  a  sudden  fear  that  breaks  each  heavy 
cluster — 
See  the  furry  prick-eared  faun  that  chuckles  and  escapes  1 

Marble-smooth  and  marble-pale  the  blue  gums  guard  the 
clearing. 
When  the  winter  fern  is  gold  among  the  silver  grass, 
And    the   shy   bush   creatures    watching   bright-eyed   and 
unf  earing. 
See  the  slender  Oreads  while  we  unheeding  pass. 

Wreathed  with  starry  clematis  these  tread  the  grassy  spaces, 
When  the  moon  sails  up  beyond  the  highest  screening  tree. 

All  the  forest  dances,  and  the  furthest  hidden  places 
Are  astir  with  beauty — but  we  may  not  often  see. 

Centuries  before  the  golden  vision  came  to  find  us. 
Showing  us  the  southern  lands,  these  Grecians  settled  here: 

Now  they  throng  the  country,  but  our  Uttle  hurries  blind  us, 
And  we  must  be  reverent  ere  the  least  of  them  appear. 

Dorothea  Mackellar, 


SEPTEMBER 

The  morns  are  growing  misty,  the  nights  are  turning  cold, 
The  linden  leaves  are  falling  like  a  shower  of  gold; 
And  over  where  ffiy  heart  is,  beneath  the  Southern  sun, 
The  shearing's  nearly  over  and  the  spring's  begun. 

The  crying  flocks  are  driven  to  feed  in  peace  again, 

They  stream  and  spread  and  scatter  on  the  smooth  green  plain, 

And  in  the  sky  above  them  the  soft  spring  breezes  keep 

A  flock  of  clouds  as  snowy  as  the  new-shorn  sheep. 


Colour  229 

Now  later  comes  the  sunshine,  and  sooner  comes  the  dark; 
The  barefoot  newsboys  shiver;  the  ladies  in  the  Park 
Wear  furs  about  their  shoulders,  for  autumn  winds  are  keen, 
And  rusty,  curling  edges  fleck  the  chestnuts'  green. 

The  mists  hang  gauzy  curtains  of  pearl  and  pigeon-blue 
Between  us  and  the  distance;  the  street-lamps  shining  through 
Wear  each  a  golden  halo,  diaphanous  and  fair — 
But  not  one  whit  more  lovely  than  my  own  clear  air. 

More  clear  than  you  can  dream  it,  as  bright  as  diamond, 
It  bathes  the  plains  and  ridges  and  the  hills  beyond, 
It  bathes  the  pillared  woodlands  that  ring  with  bell-bird  notes, 
With  mating-calls  and  answers  from  a  thousand  throats.  .  .  . 

The  lamps  are  lit  in  London,  and  in  their  searching  light 
The  smiling  anxious  faces  look  very  strained  and  white: 
And  over  where  my  heart  is,  twelve  thousand  miles  away. 
The  dewy  grass  is  glinting  at  the  break  of  day. 


COLOUR 

The  lovely  things  that  I  have  watched  unthinking, 

Unknowing,  day  by  day, 
That  their  soft  dyes  had  steeped  my  soul  in  colour 

That  will  not  pass  away: — 

Great  saffron  sunset  clouds,  and  larks  from  mountains. 

And  fenceless  miles  of  plain. 
And  hillsides  golden  green  in  that  unearthly 

Clear  shining  after  rain; 

And  nights  of  blue  and  pearl;  and  long  smooth  bearhes, 

Yellow  as  sunburnt  wheat, 
Edged  with  a  line  of  foam  that  creams  and  hisses 

Enticing  weary  feet. 

And  emeralds,  and  sunset-hearted  opals, 

And  Asian  marble,  veined 
With  scarlet  flame,  and  cool  green  jade,  and  moonstones 

Misty  and  azure-stained; 


230  The  Upper  Darling 

And  almond- trees  in  bloom,  and  oleanders, 

Or  a  wide  purple  sea. 
Of  plain-land  gorgeous  with  a  lovely  poison, 

The  evil  Darling  pea. 

There  is  no  night  so  black  but  you  shine  through  it, 

There  is  no  mom  so  drear, 
0  colour  of  the  world,  but  I  can  find  you, 

Most  tender,  pure,  and  clear. 

Thanks  be  to  God,  who  gave  this  gift  of  colour, 

Which  who  shall  seek  shall  find; 
Thanks  be  to  God,  who  gives  me  strength  to  hold  it. 

Though  I  were  stricken  blind. 

Dorothea  Mackellar. 


THE  UPPER  DARLING 

Where,  like  an  oven  in  the  sky, 
Australia's  sun  is  blazing  high, 
And  from  its  distant  inland  source 
The  Darling  winds  its  sinuous  course, 
'Mid  drear}'  regions,  parched  and  dry, 
Whose  sameness  palls  the  wearied  eye; 
With  sandy  scrubs  and  salt-bush  plains. 
That  scant  reward  the  shepherd's  pains; 
And  timber  belts  of  straggling  growth. 
All  stunted  with  the  summer's  drouth; 
Where  dusty  clouds  and  teasing  flies 
Afflict  the  sight  and  bung  the  eyes : 
While  panting  nature  faints  beneath 
The  hot  sirocco's  stifling  breath; 
Where,  proper  to  that  region  rude. 
Appears  the  Aborigine  nude. 
With  agile  form,  and  eye  of  fear. 
Equipped  with  boomerang  and  spear, 
A  simple  race,  devoid  of  cares. 
Who  herd  in  camps,  like  beasts  in  lairs, 
Exhibiting  in  their  outlines — 
As  things  grow  coarse  at  their  confines — 
God's  image's  remotest  trace. 
The  selvedge  of  the  human  race. 

DuGALD  Ferguson. 


To  One  in  England  231 

DEATH  IN  THE  BUSH 

SUGGESTED  BY  THE  DEATH  OF  BURKE  AND  WILLS 

To  die,  to  perish  in  the  bush  alone, 

With  but  the  wilds  to  hear  thy  parting  groan; 

With  but  the  winds  to  catch  thy  parting  breath, 

And  mock  the  last  long  agony  of  death; 

To  feel  some  message  to  the  true  and  dear 

Clamour  for  utterance,  yet  with  none  to  hear; 

To  long  with  anguish  health  can  never  know 

For  the  last  solace  human  hands  bestow; 

Yet  hear  no  gentle  tone,  no  soft  caress 

Soothing  thy  spirit's  last  and  worst  distress; 

To  feel  a  thousand  thoughts  for  language  rise, 

Yet  which  must  perish  when  the  body  dies; 

Where  no  kind  voice  can  quell  the  rising  fears. 

No  gentle  hand  wipe  off  the  bitter  tears; 

To  face  the  awful  king  unarmed,  alone, 

Thy  loss  unnoticed,  and  thy  fate  unknown; 

To  know  not  if  thy  wasted  form  shall  lie 

And  shrivel  'neath  the  sun's  all-scorching  eye; 

Or  if  the  warrigal  with  rapture  grim 

Shall  tear  thee  piece  from  piece,  and  limb  from  limb; 

To  know  thine  eyes  may  gaze  unclosed  to  Heaven, 

Till  from  their  orbs  by  crows  and  swamp-hawks  riven; 

Which  to  their  prey,  while  still  thou'rt  conscious,  rush ! 

God  grant  we  face  not  death  while  in  the  bush. 

Margaret  TnoMASg 

TO  ONE  IN  ENGLAND 

"  I  SEND  to  you  " 
Songs  of  a  southern  isle, 
Isle  like  a  flower 
In  warm  seas  low  lying: 

Songs  to  beguile 
Some  wearisome  hour, 
When  Time's  tired  of  flying. 


232  Old  New  Zealand 

Songs  which  were  sung, 
To  a  rapt  listener  lying 
In  sweet  lazy  hours, 
Where  wild  birds'  nests  swung 
And  winds  came  a-sighing 
In  nature's  own  bowers. 

Songs  which  trees  sung, 
By  summer  winds  swayed 
Into  rhythmical  sound ; 
Sweet  soul-bells  rung 
Through  the  Ngaio's  green  shade 
Unto  one  on  the  ground. 

Songs  from  an  island 
Just  waking  from  sleep. 
In  history's  morning; 
Songs  from  a  land 
Where  night  shadows  creep. 
When  your  day  is  dawning. 

0,  songs,  go  your  way, 

Over  seas,  over  lands; 

Though  friendless  sometimes. 

Fear  not,  comes  a  day 

When  the  world  will  clasp  hands 

With  my  wandering  rhymes. 

Eleanor  Elizabeth  Montgomery. 


OLD  NEW  ZEALAND 
(1642-1769) 

Fair  lay  the  land  and  lonely,  by  white  man's  foot  untrod — 
It  seemed  another  Eden  fresh  from  the  hand  of  God, 
When  Abel  Tasman,  sailing  through  seas  unpierced  before. 
Beheld  with  joy  and  wonder  this  sunny  Southern  shore — 

Beheld  the  woods  and  mountains,  all  clad  in  radiant  dress; 
Beheld  the  myriad  songsters,  arrayed  in  loveliness; 
Beheld  the  swarming  people,  on  beach  or  headland  high. 
Who  walked  in  grace  and  manhood  with  prideful  step  and  eye ! 


Old  New  Zealand  233 

All  this  saw  Abel  Tasman;  men  heard  his  wondrous  tale, 
Incredulous,  unheeding;  neglect  let  fall  her  veil; 
Nor  till  another  hundred  years  had  passed  in  solemn  train, 
Did  eye  of  white  man  rest  upon  this  virgin  land  again. 

But  Tasman — -young  and  ardent,  and  fired  with  warmest  love 
For  his  dear  native  Zealand,  and  one  he  prized  above 
All  other  maids — had  left  here,  amid  the  Southern  foam, 
Enduring  tokens  of  his  love  and  sweetheart  and  of  home. 

Behold  where  Cape  Maria  Van  Diemen,  on  the  north. 
Proclaims  of  Tasman's  lady-love  the  virtues  and  the  worth ; 
And  while  we  name  these  islands  "  New  Zealand,"  as  to-day, 
The  fame  of  Abel  Tasman  shall  never  fade  away. 

•  •  •  •  •  •  •« 

Twelve  weary  decades  later,  the  Maoris  gazed  again ; 
There  came  a  sailor  greater  than  Tasman  o'er  the  main; 
'Twas  Cook,  the  brave  explorer,  the  fearless  and  the  free, 
Who  found  the  lost  New  Zealand  amid  the  Southern  Sea. 

He  spied  the  country's  borders — he  spared  not  toil  or  time; 
He  marked  its  soil  productive,  its  bright  and  healthy  clime ; 
He  saw  its  noble  harbours,  its  lofty  mountain  chains, 
Grand  woods,  pellucid  waters,  and  broad  and  fertile  plains; 

He  marked  the  fluttering  millions  of  birds  of  various  hues ; 

He  saw  the  swarming  people,  in  mighty  war  canoes ; 

He  marked  how  strange  their  language,  their  customs  and 

their  dress, 
While  every  tattooed  visage  would  'horrent  wrath  express! 

How  wild  and  fierce  these  Maoris  no  words  may  well  describe, 
Rapine  and  rage  were  rampant;   tribe  fought  'gainst  hostile 

tribe ; 
Each  village  was  a  fortress ;  the  sound  of  war  ne'er  ceased ; 
Each  battle  was  the  prelude  to  a  bloody  human  feast ! 

E'en  woman,  formed  for  sweetness,  for  love,  and  tender  art, 
Here  showed  the  tiger  instinct,  the  hard  and  ruthless  heart ; 
Hers  was  the  task  in  battle  the  wounded  brave  to  slay, 
And  cook  the  reeking  corpses  for  the  feast  that  closed  the 
fray. 


234 


New  Zealand 


How  sad  and  strange  this  horrid  change  from  the  sweet  age 

of  Gold! 
And  though  the  "  why  "  and  "  wherefore  "  may  not  by  man 

be  told, 
We  know  that  human  nature  is  perverse,  weak,  and  vile, 
And  soon  ease  turns  to  evil  the  good  enjoyed  erewhile. 

As  Jacob's  offspring  lusted  for  Egypt's  spicy  food. 
Perhaps  the  Maori  thirsted  once  more  for  human  blood ; 
Then  appetite  perverted  from  nature's  healthy  course, 
Though  long  suppressed,  might  wake  again  with  all  resistless 
force  1 

Hence  kindred  preyed  on  kindred;    the  sire  devoured  the 

child ; 
Man  (made  in  God's  own  image)  had  sunk,  debased,  defiled. 
Not  lower  than  the  angel,  but  lower  than  the  beast. 
Which  preys  not  on  its  kind,  but  turns  in  loathing  from  the 

feast. 

Such  the  New  Zealand  Maori  when  Britons  first  arrived; 
But  'mid  her  degradation  some  Godlike  traits  survived. 
Brave,  trustful,  truthful,  generous,  he  could  at  times  be  still; 
Strange  compound  be  of  diverse  traits,  extremes  of  good 
and  ill. 

J.  LiDDELL  Kelly. 


NEW  ZEALAND 
(1893) 

God  girt  her  about  with  the  surges 

And  winds  of  the  masterless  deep. 
Whose  tumult  uprouses  and  urges 

Quick  billows  to  sparkle  and  leap. 
He  filled  from  the  life  of  their  motion 

Her  nostrils  with  breath  of  the  sea. 
And  gave  her  afar  in  the  ocean 

A  citadel  free. 

Her  never  the  fever-mist  shrouding. 
Nor  drought  of  the  desert  may  blight, 

Nor  pall  of  dim  smoke  overclouding 
Vast  cities  of  clamour  and  night. 


New  Zealand  235 

But  the  voice  of  abundance  of  waters, 

The  valleys  that  bright  rivers  lave, 
Greets  the  children,  the  sons  and  the  daughters 

Of  sunshine  and  wave. 

Lo !  here  where  each  league  hath  its  fountain, 

The  isles  of  deep  fern  and  tall  pine. 
And  breezes  snow-cooled  on  the  mountains, 

Or  keen  from  the  limitless  brine. 
See  men  to  the  battlefield  pressing 

To  conquer  one  foe — the  stem  soil, 
Their  kingship  in  labour  expressing, 

Their  lordship  in  toil. 

Though  young,  they  are  heirs  of  the  ages, 

Though  few,  they  are  freemen  and  peers, 
Plain  workers — though  sure  of  their  wages 

Slow  Destiny  pays  with  the  years. 
Though  least  they  and  latest  their  nation. 

Yet  this  they  have  won  without  sword, 
That  woman  with  man  shall  have  station, 

And  Labour  be  lord. 

The  winds  of  the  sea  and  high  heaven 

Speed  pure  to  her  kissed  by  the  foam. 
The  steeds  of  her  ocean  undriven, 

Unbitted  and  riderless  roam. 
And  clear  from  her  lamp  newly  lighted 

Shall  stream  o'er  the  billows  uncurled 
A  light  as  of  wrongs  at  length  righted. 

Of  Hope  to  the  world. 

W.  P.  Reeves. 


NEW  ZEALAND 

The  rippling  waters 
Of  the  Waitemata 
Dance  light  and  joyous 

To  the  evening  breeze; 
The  bell-bird  chimeth 
Pleasant  anthems 


236       From  "  Raiiolf  and  Amohia  " 

To  the  locusts  chirping 

On  the  myrtle  trees; 
And  orange  blossoms 
Around  me  falling, 
And  rosebuds  smiling 

Where  the  eye  may  rest; 
The  bright  stars  quiver 
On  the  flowing  river^ 
Like  rubies  shimmer 

On  an  angel's  breast. 

The  purple  blossoms 
In  the  woodland  bowers, 
The  rippling  brooklet 

And  the  foaming  spray; 
The  fern  tree  bending, 
The  tide  up-surging, 
And  zephyrs  laden 

With  perfumed  spray. 
These  are  thy  beauties, 
Oh,  fair  Zealandia ! 
And  brave  hearts  beating — 

With  love  and  glee, 
And  thy  lovely  daughters, 
Like  thy  laughing  waters. 
Trill  light  and  joyous 

Love  songs  to  thee. 

W.   R.  Wills. 


FROM  "  RANOLF  AND  AMOHIA  " 
A  South  Sea  Day  Dream 

THE  ISLAND 

O'er  scenes  more  fair,  serenely  wild, 

Not  often  summer's  glor}^  smiled; 

Where  flecks  of  cloud,  transparent,  bright, 

No  alabaster  half  so  white — 

Hung  lightly  in  a  luminous  dome 

Of  sapphire — seemed  to  float  and  sleep 

Far  in  the  front  of  its  blue  steep; 


From  "  Ranolf  and  Amohia  "       237 

And  almost  awful,  none  the  less 

For  its  liquescent  loveliness, 

Behind  them  sunk — just  o'er  the  hill 

The  deep  abyss,  profound  and  still — 

The  so  immediate  Infinite; 

That  yet  emerged,  the  same,  it  seemed 

In  hue  divine  and  melting  balm. 

In  many  a  lake  whose  crystal  calm 

Uncrisped,  unwrinkled,  scarcely  gleamed ; 

When  sky  above  and  lake  below 

Would  Uke  one  sphere  of  azure  show, 

Save  for  the  circling  belt  alone. 

The  softly-painted  purple  zone 

Of  mountains — bathed  where  nearer  seen 

In  sunny  tints  of  sober  green. 

With  velvet  dark  of  woods  between, 

All  glossy  glooms  and  shifting  sheen; 

While  here  and  there,  some  peaks  of  snow 

Would  o'er  their  tenderer  violet  lean, 

•  •  •  •  • 

And  yet  within  this  region,  fair 
With  wealth  of  waving  woods — these  glades 
And  glens  and  lustre-smitten  shades. 
Where  trees  of  tropic  beauty  rare 
With  graceful  spread  and  ample  swell 
Uprose — and  that  strange  asphodel  ^ 
On  tufts  of  stiff  green  bayonet-blades, 
Great  bunches  of  white  bloom  upbore 
Like  blocks  of  sea-washed  madrepore. 
That  steeped  the  noon  in  fragrance  wide, 
Till  by  the  exceeding  sweet  opprest 
The  stately  tree-fern  leaned  aside 
For  languor,  with  its  starry  crown 
Of  radiating  fretted  fans. 
And  proudly-springing  beauteous  crest 
Of  shoots  all  brown  with  gUstening  down. 
Curved  like  the  lyre-bird's  tail  half-spread. 
Or  necks  opposed  of  wrangling  swans, 
Red  bill  to  bill — black  breast  to  breast — 
Aye !  in  this  reahn  of  seeming  rest, 

1  Order  Liliaceas,  lo  to  40  feet  high,  leaves  2  feet,  flower  deaselv 
crowded. 


238       From  "  Ranolf  and  Amohia  " 

What  sights  you  met  and  sounds  of  dread ! 

Calcareous  caldrons^  deep  and  large 

With  geysers  hissing  to  their  merge; 

Sulphureous  fumes  that  spout  and  blow; 

Columns  and  cones  of  boiling  snow; 

And  sable  lazy-bubbling  pools 

Of  spluttering  mud  that  never  cools; 

With  jets  of  steam  through  narrow  vents 

Uproaring,  maddening  to  the  sky, 

Like  cannon-mouths  that  shoot  on  high 

In  unremitting  loud  discharge 

Their  inexhaustible  contents; 

While  oft  beneath  the  trembling  ground 

Rumbles  a  drear  persistent  sound 

Like  ponderous  engines  infinite,  working 

At  some  tremendous  task  below ! — 

Such  are  the  signs  and  symptoms — lurking 

Or  launching  forth  in  dread  display — 

Of  hidden  fires,  internal  strife, 

Amid  that  leafy,  lush  array 

Of  rank  luxuriant  verdurous  life: 

Glad  haunts  above  where  blissful  live 

High  revel,  rove,  enraptured  dwell; 

But  through  them  pierce  such  tokens  fierce 

Of  rage  beneath  and  frenzies  fell; 

As  if,  to  quench  and  stifle  it, 

Green  Paradise  were  flung  o'er  Hell — 

Flung  fresh  with  all  her  bowers  close-knit. 

Her  dewy  dales  and  dimpled  streams ; 

Yet  could  not  so  its  fury  quell 

But  that  the  old  red  realm  accurst 

Would  still  recalcitrate,  rebel, 

Still  struggle  upward  and  outburst 

In  scalding  fumes,  sulphureous  steams. 

It  struck  you  as  you  paused  to  trace 

The  sunny  scenery's  strange  extremes. 

As  if  in  some  divinest  face, 

All  heavenly  smiles,  angelic  grace, 

Your  eye  at  times  discovered,  despite 

Sweet  looks  with  innocence  elate. 

Some  wan  wild  spasm  of  blank  affright, 

Or  demon  scowl  of  pent-up  hate; 


From  "  Ranolf  and  Amohia  "       239 

Or  some  convulsive  writhe  confest, 
For  all  that  bloom  of  beauty  bright, 
An  anguish  not  to  be  represt. 
You  look — a  moment  bask  in,  bless 
The  laughing  light  of  happiness; 
But  look  again — what  startling  throes 
And  fiery  pangs  of  fierce  distress 
The  lovely  lineaments  disclose — 
How  o'er  the  fascinating  features  flit 
The  genuine  passions  of  the  nether  pit ! 


TANGI— THE  CHIEF 

Such  was  this  Tangi— such  "  The  Wailing  Sea;  " 

Of  form  almost  gigantic  he — 
Bull -necked,  square  -  jawed,  firm -lipped,   bold -eyed, 

broad-browed. 
His  looks  proclaimed  his  character  aloud: 
And  when  he  stood  forth  in  full  height  and  pride 
In  flowing  vest  of  silky  flax,  undyed. 
But  crimson-spotted  with  round  knobs  of  wool. 
Black  points  of  cord,  alternate,  hanging  free; 
And  o'er  it,  down  to  the  brown  ankles  bare 
A  mantle  of  white  wild-dog  fur  well-dressed, 
Its  skirt's  broad  rim  tan-hued;   his  snowy  hair 

Crowned  with  a  jet-black  arching  crest 

Of  hoop5e-feathers  stuck  upright, 

Their  tips  a  crescent  of  pure  white; 
And  in  his  hand,  to  order  with  or  smite. 
The  greenstone  baton  broad  of  war  or  rule. 
Green,  smooth,  and  oval  as  a  cactus  leaf — 
Did  he  not  look,  aye,  every  inch  a  Chief? 
Did  not  each  glance  and  gesture  stamp  him  then. 
Self-heralded  a  God-made  King  of  Men? 


THE  STORM 

A  thunderstorm  was  sweeping  o'er  the  lake. 
The  hills  had  whitened  off  in  sudden  mist 
That  soon  grew  leaden-livid ;  flake  on  flake 


240       From  "  Ranolf  and  Amohia  " 

The  fine  spray  smoked  along  the  watery  floor — 

Till  plumb-down  rushed  the  rain's  impetuous  pour^ 

A  thousand  claps  of  thunder  seemed  to  break 

Confusedly  all  at  once — with  clattering  roar 

Tumbled  about  the  air  or  groaning  rolled^ 

As  if  some  race  Titanic^  storming  Heaven 

From  ponderous  unimaginable  wains 

On  rocky  grating  causeways  headlong  driven, 

Shot  crashing  mountains  on  the  skiey  plains; 

Or  if  the  tumult  for  a  moment  stopped 

You  heard  the  torrent  rain  how  loud  it  hissed, 

As  if  a  hecatomb  of  bulls  at  least 

Were  broiling  for  some  sacrificial  feast; 

And  all  about  the  liquid  lightnings  dropped 

In  points  like  grapestones  shaped,  of  molten  gold. 

But  Tangi,  while  the  tempest  raged,  was  told 

That  where  his  daughter  might  be  no  one  knew — 

They  feared,  upon  the  lake  in  her  canoe. 

Straightway  the  stoutest  of  his  clansmen  staunch 

He  sent  in  search  of  her  their  boats  to  launch; 

Then  set  himself  to  charm  away  the  storm ; 

And  it  was  rare  to  see  the  grand  old  chief 

Now  in  the  haughtiness  of  fancied  power 

To  cope  with  nature  in  her  fiercest  hour. 

Quick  pouring  forth  wild-ringing  chaunt  on  chaunt 

To  bid  Tawhiri — God  of  Storms — A  vaunt ! 

Now  in  a  rival  storm  of  rage  and  grief 

Threatening — reproaching — all  his  stalwart  form 

Dilating  with  defiance:  outstretched  arms 

And  head  thrown  back  and  milk-white  fleece  of  hair, 

And  bloodshot  eyes  and  dark-blue  visage  bare 

Lit  up  by  fits  in  the  blue  lightning's  glare. 

So  plies  he  his  monotonous  rude  charms — 

So  on  the  storm  his  vehement  passion  vents. 

Hoarsely  upbraiding  the  hoarse  elements. 

But  soon  the  light  canoe  they  saw 

Come  bounding  o'er  the  breaking  wave; 

There  sate,  while  mixed  delight  and  awe 
Beamed  from  her  face,  the  maiden  brave 

With  rapid  change  from  side  to  side 

A  native  youth  the  paddle  plied — 


From  "  Ranolf  and  Amohia  "       241 

A  stranger^  and  his  hearty  will 

Seemed  matched  with  equal  strength  and  skill. 

Attentive  to  his  least  command 

The  maiden  grasped  with  one  firm  hand 

The  sheet  that  held  the  shortened  sail 

That  strained  and  tugged  beneath  the  gale, 

And  with  the  other  strove  to  bale 

Fast  as  she  could  the  water,  still 

Threatening  the  little  bark  to  fill. 

Begemmed  with  spray  her  dark  hair  streamed ; 

Her  beauteous  cheek  no  paler  seemed 

Though  rain  and  spray-drops  o'er  it  teemed 

And  all  around  the  lightnings  gleamed : 

For  neither  lightning,  rain,  nor  spray 

Could  turn  her  from  her  task  away. 

Still  stood  the  sail  and  bending  mast, 

And  they  the  beach  were  nearing  fast. 

Then  through  the  waters'  boiling  strife 

The  clansmen  rushed  at  risk  of  life; 

A  struggling,  swimming,  diving  crowd, 

They  seized  with  acclamations  loud 

The  gunwale  of  the  light  canoe ; 

On  either  side,  a  dancing  row 

Of  rough  black  heads  now  rising  through 

Now  sunk  beneath  the  foamy  snow, 

With  great  triumphant  shouts  they  bore 

Canoe  and  maiden  to  the  shore. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  TAWHAKI 

Then  Amohia,  tapping  Ranolf's  arm. 
Said,  "  Listen,  Pakeha^  "  —and  with  lifted  hand. 
Rounding — enchantress-wise. 
When  double  soul  she  throws  into  a  charm — 
The  solemn  archness  of  her  great  black  eyes, 

Deep  lighted  like  a  well. 
An  ancient  legend  she  began  to  tell 
Of  one  God-hero  of  the  land, 
Of  which  our  faithful  lay  presents 
Precisely  the  main  incidents, 
*  Foreigner. 

Q 


242       From  "  Ranolf  and  Amohia  " 

Diluting  only  here  and  there 
The  better  its  intent  to  reach, 
The  language  so  condensed  and  bare, 
Those  clotted  rudiments  of  speech : 

"  Once  a  race,  the  Pona-turi — in  the  oozy  depths  of  ocean, 
Fierce,  uncouth,  in  gloomy  glory,  lived  where  light  is  none, 

nor  motion. 
More  than  anything  created,  light,  their  bane,  their  death, 

they  hated ; 
So   for  night  they  ever  waited  ere  ashore  they  seal-like 

clambered 
To   their  house  Manawa-tane  —  their  great  mansion  lofty 

chambered ; 
Whence,  if  e'er  a  windy  moon  had  caught  them,  you  would 

see  them  hieing 
Homeward — sable-shapes  beneath  the  crisping  silver  floating, 

flying. 
Swift  as  scattered  clouds  on  high  their  snowy  courses  gaily 

plying. 
Young  TawhAki,  well  he  knew  them — did  they  not  his 

father  mangle  ? 
Hang  his  fieshless  bones,  a  scarecrow,  ghastly  from  their 

roof  to  dangle? 
Keep  his  mother,  too,  a  slave,  each  day  to  give  them  timely 

warning 
Ere  dark  sky  from  earth  uplifting  left  the  first  gold  gap  of 

morning  ? 

"  Vengeance  with  his  mother  then  he  plotted.     So  by  day- 
light hiding 
In  their  houseroof-thatch  he  couched,  his  sHmy  foes'  arrival 

biding. 
Darkness  comes;  they  land  in  swarms;  their  spacious  house 

they  crowd  and  cumber; 
Revel  through  the  midnight  reckless;  drop  at  last  in  weary 

slumber. 
Like  the  distant  ocean's  roaring  sinks  and  swells  the  mighty 

snoring — 
Out  then  steals  Tawhaki  chuckling:   long  ere  day  begins  to 

brighten. 
Stops  up  every  chink  in  doorway,  window,  that  could  let  the 

light  in: 


From  "  Ranolf  and  Amohia  " 


243 


And  the  snoring  goes  on  roaring;  or  if  any  sleeper  yawning 
Turned  him  restless,  thinking,  '  Surely  it  must  now  be  near 

the  dawning/ 
Growling,  '  Slave,  is  daylight  breaking  ?   are  you  watching, 

are  you  waking?  ' 
Still  the  mother  answered  blandly, '  Fear  not,  I  will  give  you 


wammg- 


Sleep,  0  sleep,  my  Pona-turi — there  are  yet  no  streaks  of 
morning ! ' 

"  So  the  snoring  goes  on  roaring.    Now  above  the  mountains 

dewy. 
High  the  splendour — God  careers  it — great  Te  Ra,  the  Tama 

Nui.i 
Sudden  cries  Tawhaki's  mother,  '  Open  doors  and  windows 

quickly  1 
Every  stop-gap  tear  out,  clear  out/     On  them  pour  the  sun- 
beams thickly  ! 
Through  the  darksome  mansion — through  and  through  those 

sons  of  darkness  streaming 
Flash   the   spear-flights  of  the  Day-God — deadly   silent — 

golden-gleaming ! 
Down  they  go,  the  Pona-turi !  vain  their  struggles,  yells,  and 

fury! 
Like  dead  heaps  of  fishes  stranded  by  the  storm-spray, 

gaping — staring — 
Stiffened — so  astonished,  helpless,  lay  they  in  the  sunbeams 

glaring: 
Fast  as  shrink  upon  the  shelly  beach,  those  tide-left  discs  of 

jelly; 
Fast  as  leathery  fungus-balls  in  yellow  dust-clouds  fuming 

fly  off, 
So  they  shrink,  they  fade,  they  wither,  so  those  Imps  of 

Darkness  die  off !  " 

1  Te  Ra — the  Sun.  Tama  Nui — the  "  great  Son  "  of  the  Heavens 
and  Earth. 

"  Te  Ra,  the  Sun."  A  curious  coincidence,  if  nothing  more,  that 
the  Sun,  personified  or  deified  throughout  Polynesia  under  the  name 
"  Ra,"  was  worshipped  under  the  same  name  Ra,  or  Re,  (The  Sun, 
P»-Ra  =  Phrah  =  Pharaoh,  the  royal  title),  universally  throughout 
Egypt,  and  especially  at  Heliopolis  in  Lower  Egypt,  the  "  On  "  of  the 
Jewish  scriptures.  See  Wilkiuson's.4««>w/  Egyptians,  vol.  Iv.  p.  287,  etc. 


244       From  "  Ranolf  and  Amohia" 


AMOHIA  S   FLIGHT 

Then  paddling  off  with  all  her  might, 

Away  across  the  lake  she  flew, 

And  left  a  wake  of  foam  snow-bright, 

And  broadening  ripple  glassy-blue; 

While  dashing  after,  less  expert. 

Soon  Ranolf  finds  he  must  exert 

His  utmost  skill  to  catch  her,  too. 

But  when,  though  less  by  skill  than  strength, 

He  nears  her  flying  skiff  at  length — 

With  nimble  paddle  dodging  back 

She  slips  off  on  another  tack, 

With  swiftly- flitting  noiseless  ease; 

As — when  some  fisher  thinks  to  seize 

With  gently-dropped  and  stealthy  spear 

A  flounder,  down  in  shallows  clear, 

'Mid  mottling  tufts  of  dusky  weeds 

And  white  sand-patches  where  it  feeds — 

The  trembling  shadow  shifts  away 

Through  faintly-shimmering  water  grey — 

'Tis  there— and  gone — his  would-be  prey! 

So,  hovering  round  with  wistful  eyes. 

While  many  a  feint,  to  cheat,  surprise. 

That  merry  mocker,  Ranolf  tries. 

She,  at  a  little  distance  staying, 

And  watchful,  with  the  paddle  playing, 

No  move  of  his,  no  glance  to  miss — 

Now  darts  alert  that  way,  now  this; 

And  at  each  foiled  attempt  again 

Provokes  him  in  alluring  strain: 

"  Look!    I'm  one  of  those  divine  ones — joy  and  love  of  all 

beholders. 
Who  had  pinions,  0  such  fine  ones!   growing  from  their 

stately  shoulders; — 
Not  that  fond  one  too  confiding — so  in  vain  your  bright  eyes 

watch  me — 
He,  the  last  on  earth  residing  ...  Ah !    you  need  not  think 

to  catch  me !  .  .  . 


From  "  Ranolf  and  Amohia  "       245 

Who,  beside  his  loved-one  lying,  let  the  maid  while  he  was 

sleeping, 
Press  his  wings  off,  spoil  his  flying — lest  he  e'er  should  leave 

her  weeping ! " 

Then  off  she  skims  in  circuit  wide, 
Resolved  another  plan  to  try. 
Again  with  paddles  swiftly  plied, 
Again  across  the  lake  they  fly; 
And  as  her  little  bark  he  nears, 
A  new  defiance  Ranolf  hears: 

"  I'm  Wakatau,  he — 

That  Child  of  the  Sea! 

And  my  dearest  delight 

Is  flying  my  kite. 

Down  beneath,  on  the  sand. 

With  the  string  in  my  hand, 

Under  water  I  stand; 

Or  the  kite  in  the  air. 

Like  the  day-moon  up  there, 

Like  an  albatross  strong, 

Draws  me  swiftly  along 

As  I  float  to  and  fro 

On  the  green  sea  below. — 

Apakiira,  my  mother 

Can  catch  me,  none  other; 

From  the  quickest  alive, 

Down — down — would  I  dive! — 

Whoever  you  be — 

Though  fonder,  though  dearer. 

You,  you  are  not  she, 

Apakura,  0  no! — 

So  if  you  come  nearer 

See — down  I  must  go !  " 

Scarce  on  the  gunwale  had  he  laid 
His  hand,  and  scarce  the  words  were  said. 
Ere,  slipping  from  her  loosened  dress, 
Her  simple  kilt  and  cloak  of  flax — 
Just  as  a  chestnut  you  may  press 
With  careful  foot  ere  ripened  well, 


246       From  "  Ranolf  and  Amohia  " 

Shoots  from  its  green  and  prickly  shell, 

With  tender  rind  so  tawny-clean 

And  dainty-pure  and  smooth  as  wax — 

She  shot  into  the  blue  serene — 

A  moment  gleamed,  then  out  of  sight, 

Swift  as  a  falling  flash  of  light ! 

All  round  he  seeks  with  anxious  mien 

The  Naiad — nowhere  to  be  seen: 

A  fearful  time  he  seems  to  spy — 

His  heart  beats  quick — when  lo,  hard  by, 

A  mermaid !  risen  on  the  rocks, 

Whose  diamond  glances  archly  play 

Through  shaken  clouds  of  glittering  locks, 

And  glancing  showers  of  diamond-spray: 

"  You  are  not  Apakura  !  0,  no,  no,  not  you  !  " 

She  cries — and  dives  beneath  the  blue. 

He  follows,  watching  where  she  glides 

Beneath  a  drooping  pall  profound 

Of  boughs,  that  all  the  water  hides. 

Into  the  gloom  he  pushes:  sound 

Or  sight  of  her  is  none  around. 

But  hark ! — 'twas  somewhere  near  the  bank 

That  sudden  splash !  it  takes  his  ear 

As  startlingly  as  sometimes,  near 

A  stream  where  June's  hot  grass  is  rank, 

You  hear  the  coiled-up  water-snake 

Your  unsuspecting  footsteps  wake. 

Flap  down  upon  the  wave  below, 

And  wabbling  through  the  water  go. 

Again  to  the  mid-lake  she  hies; 

In  swift  pursuit  again  he  flies: 

And  see !  she  waits  with  face,  how  meek ! 

Till  he  can  touch  and  almost  clasp 

The  shining  shoulders,  laughing  cheek; 

Then,  diving  swift,  eludes  his  grasp: 

Just  as,  with  quick  astonished  eye, 

A  wild-duck  waits,  until  well-nigh 

The  ruddy-curled  retriever's  snap 

Is  gently  closing  like  a  trap 

On  its  poor  neck  and  broken  wing. 

Before  with  sudden  jerk  she  dips, 

Beneath  the  ripple  vanishing. 


A  Colonist  in  His  Garden  247 

From  Ranolf  so  the  maiden  slips — 
And  when,  the  chase  renewed,  he  nears 
The  spot  where  next  she  reappears, 
Look !   floating  on  the  glass  she  lies 
With  close-sealed  lips  and  fast-shut  eyes, 
Still  as  a  saint  in  marble  bloom 
Carved  snowy-dead  upon  a  tomb. 

Alfred  Domett. 


A  COLONIST  IN  HIS  GARDEN 
He  Reads  a  Letter 

"  Dim  grows  your  face,  and  in  my  ears. 
Filled  with  the  tramp  of  hurrying  years, 

Your  voice  dies,  far  apart. 
Our  shortening  day  draws  in,  alack! 
Old  Friend,  ere  darkness  falls,  turn  back 

To  England,  life  and  art. 

"  Write  not  that  you  content  can  be, 
Pent  by  that  drear  and  shipless  sea 

Round  lonely  islands  rolled. 
Isles  nigh  as  empty  as  their  deep. 
Where  men  but  talk  of  gold  and  sheep 

And  think  of  sheep  and  gold. 

"  A  land  without  a  past;  a  race 
Set  in  the  rut  of  commonplace. 

Where  Demos  overfed 
Allows  no  gulf,  permits  no  height. 
And  grace  and  colour,  music,  light, 

From  sturdy  scorn  are  fled. 

"  I'll  draw  you  home.    Lo !     As  I  write 
A  flash — a  swallow's  arrow-flight! 

O'erhead  the  skylark's  wings 
Quiver  with  joy  at  winter's  rout: 
A  gust  of  April  from  without 

Scents  of  the  garden  brings. 


248  A  Colonist  in  His  Garden 

";  The  quickening  turf  is  starred  with  gold; 
The  orchard  vvall^  rust-red  and  old, 

Glows  in  the  sunlight  long. 
The  very  yew-tree  warms  to-day, 
As  the  sundial,  mossed  and  gray, 

Marks  with  a  shadow  strong. 

"  Tired  of  the  bold  aggressive  New, 
Say,  will  your  eyes  not  joy  to  view. 

In  a  sedater  clime, 
How  mellowing  tones  at  leisure  steal, 
And  age  hath  virtue  scars  to  heal. 

And  beauty  weds  gray  Time?  " 

He  Speaks 

Good  wizard !    Thus  he  weaves  his  spell. 
Yet,  charm  he  twenty  times  as  well. 

Me  shall  he  never  spur, 
To  seek  again  the  old,  green  land. 
That  seems  from  far  to  stretch  a  hand 

To  sons  who  dream  of  her. 

For  is  my  England  there?    Ah,  no. 
Gone  is  my  England,  long  ago. 

Leaving  me  tender  joys. 
Sweet,  fragrant  happy-breathing  names 
Of  wrinkled  men  and  gray-haired  dames, 

To  me  still  girls  and  boys. 

With  these  in  youth  let  memory  stray 
In  pleasance  green,  where  stern  to-day 

Works  Fancy  no  mischance. 
Dear  pleasance — let  no  light  invade 
Revealing  ravage  Time  hath  made 

Amid  thy  dim  romance! 

Here  am  I  rooted.     Firm  and  fast 
We  men  take  root  who  face  the  blast, 

When,  to  the  desert  come. 
We  stand  where  none  before  have  stood 
And  braving  tempest,  drought,  and  flood, 

Fight  Nature  for  a  home. 


A  Colonist  in  His  Garden  249 

Now,  when  the  fight  is  o'er,  what  man, 
What  wrestler,  who  in  manhood's  span 

Hath  won  so  stern  a  fall, 
Who,  matched  against  the  desert's  power, 
Hath  made  the  wilderness  to  flower, 

Can  turn,  forsaking  all? 

Yet  that  my  heart  to  England  cleaves 
This  garden  tells  with  blooms  and  leaves 

In  old  familiar  throng. 
And  smells,  sweet  English,  every  one. 
And  English  turf  to  tread  upon. 

And  English  blackbird's  song. 


"  No  art?  "    Who  serve  an  art  more  great 
Than  we,  rough  architects  of  state 

With  the  old  earth  at  strife  ? 
"  No  colour?  "     On  the  silent  waste 
In  pigments  not  to  be  effaced. 

We  paint  the  hues  of  life. 

"  A  land  without  a  past?  "    Nay,  nay. 
I  saw  it,  forty  years  this  day, 

— Nor  man,  nor  beast,  nor  tree, 
Wide,  empty  plains  where  shadows  pass 
Blown  by  the  wind  o'er  whispering  grass 

Whose  sigh  crept  after  me. 

Now  when  at  midnight  round  my  doors 
The  gale  through  sheltering  branches  roars. 

What  is  it  to  the  might 
Of  the  mad  gorge-wind  that  o'erthrew 
My  camp — the  first  I  pitched — and  blew 

Our  tents  into  the  night? 

Mine  is  the  vista  where  the  blue 

And  white-capped  mountains  close  the  view. 

Each  tapering  cypress  there 
At  planting  in  these  hands  was  borne. 
Small,  shivering  seedlings  and  forlorn. 

When  all  the  plain  was  bare ! 


250  The  Passing  of  the  Forest 

Skies  without  music^  mute  through  time, 
Now  hear  the  skylark's  rippUng  climb 

Challenge  their  loftier  dome. 
And  hark !    A  song  of  gardens  floats, 
Rills,  gushes  clear — the  self-same  notes 

Your  thrushes  flute  at  Home. 

See,  T  have  poured  o'er  plain  and  hill 
Gold  open-handed,  wealth  that  will 

Win  children's  children's  smiles, 
— Autumnal  glories,  glowing  leaves, 
And  aureate  flowers,  and  warmth  of  sheaves, 

Mid  weary  pastoral  miles. 

Yonder  my  poplars,  burning  gold. 
Flare  in  tall  rows  of  torches  bold. 

Spire  beyond  kindling  spire. 
Then  raining  gold  round  silver  stem 
Soft  birches  gleam.     Outflaming  them 

My  oaks  take  ruddier  fire. 

And  with  my  flowers  about  her  spread 
(None  brighter  than  her  shining  head). 

The  lady  of  my  close, 
My  daughter,  walks  in  girlhood  fair. 
Friend,  could  I  rear  in  England's  air 

A  sweeter  English  rose? 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  FOREST 

All  glory  cannot  vanish  from  the  hills. 

Their  strength  remains,  their  stature  of  command, 
Their  flush  of  colour  ere  calm  twilight  stills 

Day's  clamour  and  the  sea-wind  cools  the  land. 
Refreshed  when  rain-clouds  swell  a  thousand  rills. 

Ancient  of  days,  in  green  old  age  they  stand 
In  grandeur  that  can  never  know  decay 
Though  from  their  flanks  men  strip  the  woods  away. 


The  Passing  of  the  Forest  251 

But  thin  their  vesture  now — the  restless  grass, 
Bending  and  dancing  as  the  breeze  goes  by, 

Catching  quick  gleams  and  cloudy  shades  that  pass. 
As  running  seas  reflect  a  wind-stirred  sky, 

And  lordlier  their  forest  raiment  was 

From  crown  to  feet  that  clothed  them  royally, 

Shielding  their  mysteries  from  the  glare  of  day, 

Ere  the  dark  woods  were  reft  and  torn  away. 

Well  may  these  plundered  and  insulted  kings, 

Stripped  of  their  robes,  despoiled,  uncloaked,  discrowned. 

Draw  down  the  clouds  with  white  enfolding  wings, 
And  soft  aerial  fleece  to  wrap  them  round. 

To  hide  the  scars  that  every  season  brings, 

Black  smirch  of  fire,  the  landslip's  gaping  wound; 

Well  may  they  shroud  their  heads  in  mantle  gray. 

Since  from  their  brows  the  leaves  were  plucked  away ! 

Gone  is  the  forest  world,  its  wealth  of  life. 

Its  thrusting,  climbing,  coiling,  strangling  race, 

Creeper  with  creeper,  bush  with  bush  at  strife. 
Writhing  and  warring  for  a  breathing  space; 

Below  the  thicket,  tangled  rankness  rife, 

Aloft,  tree  columns,  shafts  of  stateliest  grace. 

Gone  are  the  forest  wrestlers.     None  might  stay; 

Giant  and  dwarf  alike  have  passed  away. 

Gone  are  the  forest  birds,  arboreal  things. 

Eaters  of  honey,  honey-sweet  of  song, 
The  tui,  and  the  bell-bird — he  who  sings 

That  brief,  rich  music  we  would  fain  prolong. 
Gone  the  wood-pigeon's  sudden  whirr  of  wings. 

The  robin,  quaintly  bold,  unused  to  wrong. 
Wild,  harmless,  hamadryad  creatures,  they 
Lived  with  their  trees,  and  died,  and  passed  away. 

And  with  the  birds,  the  flowers,  too,  are  gone 
That  bloomed  aloft,  ethereal,  stars  of  light, 

The  clematis,  the  kowhai,  like  ripe  corn, 

Russet,  though  all  the  hills  in  green  were  dight; 

The  rata,  draining  from  its  tree  forlorn 

Rich  life-blood  for  its  crimson  blossoms  bright, 

Red  glory  of  the  gorges,  well-a-day ! 

Fled  is  that  splendour,  dead  and  passed  away. 


252  The  Passing  of  the  Forest 

Lost  is  the  scent  of  resinous  sharp  pines^ 

Of  wood  fresh  cut,  clean-smelling,  for  the  hearth, 

Of  smoke  from  burning  logs,  in  wavering  lines 
Softening  the  air  with  blue,  of  cool,  damp  earth 

And  dead  trunks  fallen  among  coiling  vines. 

Brown,  mouldering,  moss-coated.     Round  the  girth 

Of  the  green  land,  the  winds  brought  hill  and  bay 

Fragrance  far-borne,  now  faded  all  away. 

Lost  is  the  sense  of  sudden,  sweet  escape 

From  dust  of  stony  plain,  from  glare  and  gale. 

When  the  feet  tread  where  shade  and  silence  drape 
The  stems  with  sleep  below  the  leafy  veil, 

Or  where  a  pleasant  rustling  stirs  each  shape 
Creeping  with  whisperings  that  rise  and  fail 

Through  lab}Tinths  half-ht  by  chequered  play 

Of  light  on  golden  moss  now  burned  away. 

Gone  are  the  forest  tracks,  where  oft  we  rode 

Under  the  silver  fern-fronds  climbing  slow. 
In  cool,  green  tunnels,  though  fierce  noontide  glowed 

And  glittered  on  the  tree-tops  far  below. 
There,  mid  the  stillness  of  the  mountain  road, 

We  just  could  hear  the  valley  river  flow. 
Whose  voice  through  many  a  windless  summer  day 

Haunted  the  silent  woods,  now  passed  away. 

Drinking  fresh  odours,  spicy  wafts  that  blew. 
We  watched  the  glassy,  quivering  air  asleep, 

Midway  between  tall  cliffs  that  taller  grew 
Above  the  unseen  torrent  calling  deep; 

Till,  like  a  sword,  cleaving  the  foliage  through. 
The  waterfall  flashed  foaming  down  the  steep: 

White,  Hving  water,  cooling  with  its  spray 

Dense  plumes  of  fragile  fern,  now  scorched  away. 

The  axe  bites  deep;  the  rushing  fire  streams  bright. 

Clear,  beautiful,  and  fierce  it  speeds  for  man, 
The  master,  set  to  change  and  stem  to  smite. 

Bronzed  pioneer  of  nations.     Ay,  but  scan 
The  ruined  beauty  wasted  in  a  night. 

The  blackened  wonder  God  alone  could  plan, 
And  builds  not  twice !     A  bitter  price  to  pay 
Is  this  for  Progress-  beauty  swept  away. 

W.  P.  Reeves* 


Pohutukawa  253 


THE  LOW  LINTEL  1 

An  Austral  churchyard^  very  calm  and  still; 

It  might  be  some  forgotten  village  fane, 
So  low  the  lintel,  weather-worn  the  sill, 

The  narrow  windows  showing  many  a  pane. 

Here  Selwyn  spoke;  and  down  this  quiet  aisle. 
In  troublous  times,  before  these  placid  years. 

Imperial  soldiers  entered  rank  and  file 
With  vivid  uniform  and  jangling  spears. 

Now  Selwyn  sleeps,  and  Cameron's  men  have  passed; 

The  graves  are  green,  the  roses  blossom  free; 
From  opal  hills  and  gloomy  caverns  vast 

Comes  in  the  requiem  music  of  the  sea. 

Hard  by  the  gate  a  paltry  tablet  stands 

For  sea-woe  in  the  times  that  lie  afar; 
By  yonder  cliffs  the  Orpheus  with  all  hands 

Trapped  to  her  doom  upon  the  seething  bar. 

Full  many  a  tale  has  reached  its  tragic  close, 
Full  many  a  wave  has  snatched  its  hapless  prey, 

Since  there  were  gathered  here  to  long  repose; 
Their  comrades  sleeping  in  the  fatal  bay. 

This  old-time  sorrow  is  a  roughened  scar 
Beneath  a  casual  hand  that  scarcely  heeds; 

That  new-made  grave  beneath  the  evening  star  ? 
Forbear!    Nor  touch  a  recent  wound  that  bleeds. 


POHUTUKAWA 

'Tis  not  the  holly  red  I  sing 

'Neath  Albion's  snowy  skies; 
Nor  yet  the  rose  that  blushes  sweet 
For  lustrous  Persian  eyes; 
St.  Peter's  Anglicaa  Churchyard,  Onehunga,  Auckland. 


254  Pohutukawa 

Nor  yet  the  stately  palm  that  waves 

O'er  Asiatic  dome: 
But  the  dear  old  native  Christmas  flower 

Of  my  New  Zealand  home. 

O'er-arched  with  blue  in  golden  days 

On  many  a  cliff  and  bight^ 
With  gnarled  branches  far  outspread, 

Bedecked  with  tassels  bright. 
I  love  thee  well,  I  love  thee  well, 

Pohutukawa- tree ; 
From  infancy  a  subtle  spell 

Thy  blossom  cast  o'er  me. 

Is  it  because  I  love  the  sea? — 

The  sea  thou  lovest  so, 
Oft  bending  o'er  until  the  depths 

Reflect  thy  crimson  glow; 
Or  mad  and  merry  little  waves 

Veil  thee  with  silver  spray, 
Dancing  in  gayest  elfin  sport 

On  some  fair  Christmas  Day? 

If  thou  hadst  bloomed  on  classic  soil 

Where  Sappho  stirred  the  soul; 
Or  by  the  lone,  wild  Orcades 

Where  Ossian's  echoes  roll; 
Or  even  in  the  good  old  land 

When  Royal  Alfred  sang, 
And  baron's  hall  and  lady's  bower 

With  merry  music  rang. 

Thy  fame  had  reached  to  other  shores, 

And  men  had  talked  of  thee, 
Our  own  Pohutukawa 

Beside  the  summer  sea. 
For  worthy  art  thou  meed  of  praise 

As  myrtle-tree  or  lime, 
As  olive-tree  or  sandalwood 

Of  cloudless  Orient  clime. 

But  far  amid  the  ocean  wide, 
And  far  adown  the  days, 


Manuka  255 

Where  shall  we  find  the  voice,  the  harp, 

To  sound  abroad  thy  praise? 
And  yet  right  well  we  love  to  see 

Thy  plumy,  rich  array, 
0  tree  of  sunny  mem'ries 

And  southern  Christmas  Day! 

The  green  Karaka's  golden  fruit 

Is  ripening  in  the  sun; 
Red  Rata  ^  wreathes  the  Kauri 

Where  creeks  in  shadow  run. 
The  white  clematis  long  ago 

Hath  lost  her  starry  flowers; 
Pohutukawa's  crimson  plumes 

Must  deck  our  Christmas  bowersg 


MANUKA 

Acres  on  acres  of  low,  hilly,  poor  land 

Is  the  Manuka's  peculiar  domain; 
\cres  on  acres  Hke  heath  on  the  moorland, 

White  with  its  blossom,  like  snow  on  the  plaing 

Acres  on  acres  to  battle  a  path  through. 

Growing  o'erhead  like  the  tall  pampas  grass, 

Wirily  branched  with  prickly  foliage; 
Woe  worth  the  day  when  the  stranger  shall  pass  1 

Acres  on  acres,  and  acres  on  acres, 

Fire  hath  swept  clean  through  the  length  of  the  land; 
But  the  Manuka  will  ne'er  be  demolished 

Until  old  Neptune  comes  over  the  strand. 

Acres  on  acres  like  heath  o'  the  moorland, 

White  with  its  blossom,  like  snow  on  the  plain ; 

For  the  fair  sun-lighted  land  of  the  Maori 
Is  the  Manuka's  peculiar  domain. 

1  Wild  vine. 


256      My  Little  Maori  Axe  of  Jade 


MV  LITTLE  MAORI  AXE  OF  JADE 

I  HEAR,  I  hear  the  wild  wind  blow 

Adown  the  gorge  a  rover  free; 
It  hustles  round  the  virgin  snow, 

And  jars  the  blue  lakes'  reverie, 
Till  foaming  torrents  madly  flee 

From  dizzy  uplands,  sore  dismayed — 
A  stone  lay  there  that  came  to  be 

My  little  Maori  axe  of  jade. 

I  hear,  I  hear  the  korero, 

Beside  the  prostrate  kauri  tree, 
I  see  the  iwis  come  and  go. 

Year  after  year  right  patiently. 
With  shouts  of  labour,  songs  of  glee. 

The  mighty  war  canoe  is  made 
Fit  for  the  sea,  with  tools  like  thee, 

My  little  Maori  axe  of  jade. 

I  hear,  I  hear  dread  sounds  of  woe, 

The  haka  warriors  bend  the  knee. 
Like  crouching  tigers  on  the  foe 

Impelled  at  once  in  fierce  melee; 
Nor  Nordenfeldt,  nor  Martini, 

Nor  curious  Damascus  blade — 
Yet  heaps  on  heaps  of  slain — Ah,  me ! 

My  little  Maori  axe  of  jade. 

Etivoy 

Chief,  on  the  warpath  cap-^-pie, 
I  conjure  up  thy  harmless  shade; 

The  crystal  where  weird  sights  I  see, 
My  little  Maori  axe  of  jade. 


Comparison  257 


COMPARISON 

The  days  of  our  years,  the  days  of  our  years, 
Alike  with  their  record  of  smiles  and  tears, 
Advance  and  recede  like  waves  on  the  shore; 
Engulfed  in  the  past  we  behold  them  no  more. 

And  some  days  are  like  to  the  deep  sea  wave 
That  often,  caressingly,  gently  doth  lave 
The  shell-strewn  sand,  and,  e'er  gliding  away. 
Makes  pohshed  and  gleaming  each  pebble-stone  gray, 

So  glad  days  roll  on  o'er  the  strand  of  time. 
When  happiness  ringeth  a  sweet,  clear  chime. 
And  the  heart  unfolds  like  some  fair  sea-flower 
'Neath  the  sunbeams  that  fall  in  a  golden  shower. 

But  let  summer  wane,  in  the  autumn  eve 
How  sadly  the  dark  sunless  waters  heave! 
Unsparkling  and  cold  they  creep  in  with  a  moan, 
And  retire,  leaving  darker  each  rock  and  stone. 

So  seasons  of  trouble  with  sorrow  rife 
Approach  in  this  changeable  human  life; 
The  bravest  oft  shrink  from  a  nameless  pain, 
For  heart-wounds  may  heal,  but  the  scars  remain.: 

How  wildly  the  storm-winds  in  winter  rave, 
How  sadly  they  wail  o'er  the  sailor's  grave ! 
When  the  hurricane  rages,  'mid  lightning-lit  gloom. 
Oh,  many  a  gallant  barque  meets  her  doom ! 

As  in  the  sad  night  of  bereavement  and  woe, 
When  the  mourner  his  impotent  frailty  doth  know, 
In  the  deafening  turbulent  surge  of  despair 
The  buffeted  soul  can  scarce  think  a  prayer. 

But,  oh !  in  the  silence  of  dawning  to  be. 
When  the  sunrise  illumines  the  wonderful  sea. 
And  Ufe-full  each  bright-crested  wavelet  appears. 
The  glory  and  gladsomeness  banish  all  fears. 

R 


258 


The  Moa 


And  such  may  the  mom  of  eternity  be, 
When  the  shadows  of  time  and  mortality  flee; 
A  life  bright,  unending  as  night's  starry  spheres. 
Begin  when  we've  numbered  the  days  of  our  years. 

Margaret  A.  SiNCLAiRg 


THE  MOA 

In  forest  deeps,  where  the  sunlight  creeps 

And  struggles  dimly  through, 
The  veil  of  leaves,  which  Nature  weaves. 

And  keeps  for  ever  new; 
Where  the  rota  vine  to  the  graceful  pine 

Clings  with  a  Judas  kiss; 
Where  blooming  flowers  make  fitting  bowers 

In  a  fairer  world  than  this; 

Where  the  ferny  sod,  by  man  untrod, 

Is  tender,  green,  and  soft; 
Where  the  Weka  might  raise  her  curious  gaze 

To  the  Tui  that  sings  aloft; 
Where  the  cataract  shakes  the  woods  and  wakes 

The  echoes  of  rock  and  glen — 
In  the  cool  dark  shade  of  a  punga  glade. 

The  Moa  has  made  his  den ! 

In  the  deepest  grot  of  this  secret  spot 

Does  the  Moa  choose  to  dwell; 
And  whitened  bones,  round  circled  stones. 

Of  his  slaughtered  victims  tell. 
Now  harsh,  shrill  cries  of  rage  arise 

High  over  the  cataract's  boom, 
For  the  mighty  bird  has  a  footstep  heard. 

And  he  sounds  the  huntsman's  doom. 

Brave  Maori !  Here  thy  club  and  spear 

Are  weapons  weak  and  vain; 
The  feathered  foe  has  laid  thee  low, 

Thou  ne'er  shalt  hunt  again: 


Tahiti  259 

The  Moa's  young  shall  pluck  thy  tongue 

Warm  from  its  quivering  root, 
And  thy  bones,  picked  bare,  shall  to  men  declare 

The  victory  of  the  Brute. 


TAHITI 

There  is  a  land  that  lieth 

Amid  the  Southern  Sea, 
Where  the  soft  zephyr  sigheth, 

Across  the  odorous  lea; 
Where  smiles  a  radiant  heaven 

On  seas  of  constant  calm; 
Where  added  charms  are  given 

Of  orange  tree  and  palm; 
Where  rise  basaltic  mountains 

With  fadeless  foliage  crowned, 
And  leaping,  sparkling  fountains 

Spread  melody  around, 

A  gentle  race  there  dwelleth 

Within  the  land  so  fair, 
Whose  happy  laughter  telleth 

Of  bosoms  free  from  care; 
Where  merry  youths  and  maidens 

In  peace  their  years  employ — 
Their  voices  join  in  cadence. 

Their  life  is  love  and  joy; 
The  grace  of  form  and  feature 

No  ugly  fashions  mar; 
The  paragons  of  Nature 

These  gentle  people  are! 

How  shall  I  tell  the  glories 

Of  that  bright  Orient  clime. 
Whose  beauties  shame  the  stories 

Brought  down  from  olden  time 
Of  Asiatic  splendour — 

Of  scenes  by  Art  made  bright; 
Of  maidens  warm  and  tender. 

Whose  eyes  have  Love's  own  light? 


26o  Slumber  Song 

How  shall  my  feeble  fingers 

Portray,  with  futile  art, 
That  nameless  grace  which  lingers 

Like  fragrance  round  my  heart? 

Not,  as  in  fable  olden. 

From  azure  fields  above 
Descends  that  City  Golden, 

Where  all  is  peace  and  love; 
From  seas  of  pearl  and  coral 

This  Island  rises  fair. 
While  beauteous  offerings  floral 

Adorn  her  glossy  hair, 
0  lovely  Papeete, 

Of  earthly  scenes  the  pride ! 
0  glorious  Tahiti, 

Old  Ocean's  chosen  bride. 

J.  LiDDELL  Kelly. 


SLUMBER  SONG 

Now  the  golden  day  is  ending, 
See  the  quiet  night  descending, 
Stealing,  stealing  all  the  colours,  all  the  roses  from  the  west. 
Safe  at  home  each  bird  is  keeping 
Watch  o'er  nest  and  children  sleeping, 
Dreaming  tender  dreams  of  sunshine,  sleeping  warm,  for 
sleep  is  best. 
Sleep,  then,  sleep,  my  little  daughter. 
Sleep  to  sound  of  running  water. 
Singing,  singing  through  the  twilight,  singing  little  things  to 
rest. 

Down  beside  the  river  flowing. 
Where  the  broom  and  flax  are  growing, 
Little  breezes  whisper  gently,  as  night's  music  softly  swells; 
And,  like  bells  of  Elfin  pealing, 
Lonely  through  tl>e  shadows  stealing, 


The  Taniwha  261 

Tinkling,  tinkling  through  the  twilight  comes  the  sound  of 
cattle  bells. 
Sleep,  then,  sleep,  my  little  daughter, 
Cattle  bells,  and  wind,  and  water. 
Weaving,  weaving  chains  of  slumber,  cast  about  thee  Dream- 
land's spells. 

Mary  H.  Poynter. 


THE  TANIWHA 

I  WILL  tell  you,  my  sons  and  daughters. 
Of  the  monster  that  dwells  in  the  waters. 

The  Taniwha  fearful  and  fierce, 
Who  is  clad  from  head  to  tail 
In  a  coat  of  scaly  mail 

No  club  or  spear  can  pierce. 

The  Taniwha !  Ah,  he  is  longer 
Than  a  war  canoe,  and  stronger 

Than  the  strongest  shark  or  whale; 
At  his  mouth  of  dreadful  size. 
And  the  gleam  of  his  fiery  eyes, 

The  bravest  heart  might  quail. 

Have  I  seen  him?  Nay,  my  daughter; 
But  I've  seen  the  troubled  water, 

When  he  lashed  it  while  in  rage. 
The  tohungas^  wise  and  old. 
Have  seen  him,  and  have  told 

Of  his  deeds  from  age  to  age. 

Have  you  seen  the  strong  man  swimming 
In  the  rivers'  waters  brimming, 

Sink  with  a  crs^  of  pain? 
Have  you  seen  the  staunch  canoe 
Go  out  o'er  the  waters  blue 

And  ne'er  return  again? 

Have  you  heard,  in  the  eerie  gloaming. 
Sounds  as  of  spirits  roaming 
Through  the  vaulted  paths  below? 
^  Priests. 


262  The  Woman  in  the  Moon 

Have  you  seen  the  waters  boil 
Through  the  crackhng,  quaking  soil, 
With  a  wailing  sound  of  woe? 

Those  sights  and  sounds  bewild'ring 
From  the  Taniwha  come,  my  children; 

For  the  Atua  ^  gives  him  power 
To  roam  from  his  secret  den, 
To  prey  on  the  sons  of  men, 

And  slaughter  them  and  devour. 

Then  pray  ye,  my  sons  and  daughters, 
To  the  mighty  god  of  waters 

That  ye  be  not  untimely  killed; 
And  a  choice  food-offering  take 
To  yon  rock  in  the  lonely  lake, 

That  the  Taniwha's  wrath  be  stilled. 

J.   LiDDELL  KeLLY.2 


THE  WOMAN  IN  THE  MOON 

(^A  Maori  Legend) 

High  in  the  dull  blue  heaven  the  round-faced  moon, 

Paling  the  twinkling  stars,  looks  calmly  down 

On  Rona  hast'ning  from  the  slumb'ring  town 

Towards  the  lake — her  path  nigh  bright  as  noon — 

To  fetch  fresh  water  which  her  mother  craves, 

She  bears  a  vessel:  now  she  stays  a  space, 

To  view  the  mirrored  moon's  reflected  face; 

But  as  she  stoops  she  falls  into  the  waves, 

Misled  by  the  deceptive  moon's  pale  ray: 

She  rising  curses  his  illusive  light. 

Then  from  the  heaven  swoops  down  the  God  of  night. 

And  seizing  Rona,  bears  her  quick  away. 

Though  parted  from  her  friends,  she's  still  in  sight. 

For  in  the  moon  she  will  be  seen  alway.^ 

Alexander  Bathgate. 

1  Spirit. 

*  This  is  given  as  an  aged  Maori's  description  of  the  mj'thical  monster, 
the  taniwha,  which  figures  largely  in  Maori  tradition  and  nomenclature. 
'  Other  versions  in  which  Rona  is  a  man. 


The  Legend  of  Hinemoa  263 


THE  LEGEND  OF  HINEMOA 

Hearken,  friends,  to  this  quaint  idyll, 
From  the  love-lore  of  the  Maori, 
From  the  ancient  native  records, 
Of  the  maiden  Hinemoa, 
Of  the  Rotorua  beauty, 
Of  the  beautiful  Wahine: 
Straight,  yet  lissome  as  the  sapling 
Growing  graceful  by  the  river; 
Hinemoa  with  the  fine  eyes 
Dark  as  midnight's  gloom  unfathomed. 
While  a  star  of  light  illumed  them — 
Eyes  that  drew  the  gaze  of  others ; 
Held  them,  as  the  old  Tohunga, 
But  in  sweeter  thraldom  held  them. 
By  their  spell  of  sweeter  magic. 
Maiden  with  the  midnight  tresses 
Glossy  as  the  Tui's  plumage; 
With  the  lithe  form  and  the  fleet  foot; 
With  the  witching  smile  revealing 
Milk-white  teeth,  'twixt  lips  of  coral. 
This  alluring  child  of  Nature 
Stole  the  hearts  of  all  the  young  men. 
Won  the  love  of  all  the  warriors; 
Left  her  sisters  of  the  Hapu, 
Left  her  sisters  all  behind  her. 
While  they  strove  for  admiration. 
She  obtained  it  without  effort. 
Beauty's  undisputed  birthright. 
Sunbeam  of  the  Raupo  Whare,^ 
Queen  of  maidens,  gay,  alluring, 
In  a  land  of  merry  maidens. 
Her  land  called  Te  Ika  a  Maui — 
Where  the  skies  are  blue  in  summer. 
Where  the  winter  passes  swiftly. 
Where  the  mountains  rise  majestic. 
Where  the  vales  are  green  as  emerald, 
Where  the  lakes  are  gems  of  turquoise, 
1  Dwelling. 


264  The  Legend  of  Hiiiemoa 

And  the  falls  shower  glittering  diamond 
Where  the  rivers,  like  fond  children, 
Hasten  toward  their  father  Ocean, 
Island  home  of  Hinemoa — 
Where  the  Bush  is  grand  and  gloomy, 
With  the  massive  stately  Kauri, 
With  the  Matai  and  Totara, 
With  the  Kowhai  and  the  Hinau, 
With  the  Rata  and  the  Rimu — ■ 
Twining  Rata,  drooping  Rimu; 
Densely  grown,  with  Rangiora 
Showing  silvery  in  the  distance, 
When  the  spring  winds  hurry  through  it. 
And  the  Raupo  by  the  river 
Bends  its  thousand,  thousand  rushes 
As  the  morning  wind  sweeps  o'er  it. 
When  the  creamy  Toi-toi 
Waves  its  soft  and  plumy  feathers, 
Downward  drooping  o'er  the  Raupo. 
Such  the  swamps  where  moorhens  wander, 
Where  the  wingless  Kiwis  wander 
Through  the  silent  starlit  watches; 
Such  the  swamps  where  lurk  the  spirits, 
Good  and  evil  spirits  also: 
So  the  sire  of  Hinemoa 
Taught  his  little  dark-eyed  daughter; 
Taught  her,  too,  the  chanting  mournful 
Sung  to  ward  away  the  Taipo  ^ — 
Sung  to  ward  away  the  spirits 
Lurking  in  the  Bush  or  flax-swamp; 
For  the  spirits  flee  from  music 
As  the  wild  beast  shuns  the  camp-fire. 
Such  the  lore,  and  such  the  legends, 
Hinemoa  heard  in  childhood, 
In  her  own  sequestered  Hapu  '■^ 
On  the  shores  of  Rotorua — 
Rotorua  famed  in  story, 
Rotorua  praised  in  poem. 
Giving  back  the  blue  of  heaven, 
Flashing  back  the  golden  sunbeams. 
Murmuring  softly  in  the  twilight, 
'  The  nether  world.  "  Family. 


The  Legend  of  Hinemoa  265 

Mirror  for  the  constellations, 

Southern  Cross  and  bright  Orion; 

Beautiful  in  summer  moonlight, 

Fairy,  dreamlike  in  the  moonlight; 

With  its  island  and  its  cascades, 

With  its  depths  and  sandy  shallows, 

With  its  terraces  and  geysers. 

With  its  fringe  of  softest  verdure, 

Fringe  of  varied  fern  and  Nikau. 

In  this  realm  of  scenes  entrancing 

Dwelt  the  maiden  Hinemoa, 

Watched  the  dawning  of  the  daylight 

From  the  little  Raupo  Whare, 

Watched  the  sun  peep  o'er  the  mountain, 

Kiss  the  vale,  and  leave  it  smiling, 

Glint  across  the  lake  and  level. 

Hinemoa  heard  the  birds  sing 

In  the  Bush  all  dark  and  dewy. 

Heard  the  shining  cuckoo's  welcome 

To  the  tender  flowers  of  springtime — 

Pretty  Pipiwharauroa ! 

Fostered  by  Te  Riroriro; 

Heard  the  long-tailed  swallow  also, 

Heard  the  Te  Kohoperoa, 

In  the  winter-time  a  lizard. 

In  the  summer-time  a  swallow, 

Say  the  ancient  Maori  legends. 

Say  the  treasured  old  traditions. 

Hinemoa  heard  the  birds  sing 

In  the  Bush  all  dark  and  dewy. 

Heard  the  Tui  and  the  bell-bird, 

Heard  the  bell-bird's  liquid  music. 

Heard  the  Korimako  calling — 

Just  as  sweet,  more  faintly,  softly. 

Breathed  her  lover's  flute  at  evening, 

Tutanekai's  flute  melodious. 

Tutanekai's  tribe  and  people 

Lived  not  on  the  ample  mainland. 

But  upon  the  little  island 

In  the  lake  of  Rotorua. 

Tutanekai  of  the  island 

Loved  the  beauty  of  the  mainland. 


2  66  The  Legend  of  Hinemoa 

With  a  love  that  lives  in  story. 

But  between  them  lay  deep  waters — 

Deeps  of  jealousy  and  envy: 

For  the  people  of  the  mainland 

Hated  those  upon  the  island, 

Came  between  fair  Hinemoa 

And  her  lover  Tutanekai. 

So  the  lovers  met  in  secret, 

On  this  fashion  met  they  nightly. 

When  the  darkness  softly  shrouded 

Lake  and  mountain,  rock  and  geyser, 

Evening's  mantle  thrown  around  them; 

Then  the  quick  ears  of  the  maiden 

Heard  a  little  strain  of  music. 

Heard  a  plaintive  strain  of  music 

Borne  across  the  listening  water. 

From  the  little  lonely  island. 

(Love,  inventive,  laughs  at  locksmiths — 

Laughs  at  lakes,  and  every  hindrance.) 

From  the  mainland  swiftly,  softly, 

Issued  then  upon  the  waters. 

With  a  noiseless,  dreamy  motion. 

With  a  cautious,  gliding  motion, 

Hinemoa's  barque  of  Kauri, 

Braving  darkness,  braving  danger. 

Fear  absorbed  in  love  all-powerful; 

Nightly  the  intrepid  beauty 

Answered  Tutanekai's  signal. 

But  one  night  the  signal  sounded 

Often,  often,  louder,  fainter, 

O'er  the  lake  of  Rotonia, 

O'er  the  hushed  and  listening  water. 

Tutanekai  watched  and  waited 

Long,  and  longer,  for  his  loved  one. 

Breathed  a  strain  of  dulcet  music. 

Hushed  the  strain  of  dulcet  music, 

Listening  for  the  dip  of  paddles 

In  the  Rotorua  waters, 

In  the  lake  of  Rotorua; 

Tried  to  pierce  the  veil  of  darkness, 

Tried  to  see  young  Hinemoa, 

Tried  to  see  her  boat  of  Kauri ; 


The  Legend  of  Hinemoa  267 

But,  in  answer  to  his  music, 

He  but  heard  the  Morepork,  Morepork, 

Heard  the  owl  still  calling  Morepork 

From  the  dense  Bush,  from  the  mainland. 

When,  all  suddenly,  beside  him. 

Suddenly,  and  close  beside  him, 

On  the  margin  of  the  island, 

On  the  white  beach  of  the  island, 

From  the  shadowy  Rotorua, 

From  the  lake  called  Rotorua, 

Rose  the  beauteous  Hinemoa, 

Rose  the  dauntless  Hinemoa; 

Rose  this  feminine  Leander, 

Happier  than  poor  Leander; 

Rose  this  water-wraith,  this  vision — 

Fairer  than  the  famous  mermaid, 

Like  a  water-nymph  or  Naiad ; 

Stood  before  him  in  her  beauty. 

Shy,  and  graceful  as  the  white  crane. 

Beautiful  as  the  young  wild  hawk, 

By  her  presence  on  the  island 
Telling  more  than  words  could  ever 

All  the  love  within  her  young  heart. 

Had  it  not  o'ercome  her  weakness, 

Overcome  her  woman  weakness, 

Overcome  her  fears  and  fancies. 

Nerved  her  with  a  desperate  courage, 

When  her  lover's  signal  sounded, 

And  she  found  that  friends  and  parents 

Had  removed  canoe  and  paddles, 

Left  her  none  to  cross  the  lake  with  ? 

Then  the  dauntless  Maori  maiden 

Lost  no  time  in  useless  wailing, 

Quickly  made  a  simple  life-belt, 

Made  of  empty  gourds  a  life-belt, 

Girt  it  silently  alDout  her. 

Left  the  mainland  in  the  darkness 

For  the  island  in  the  darkness; 

Boldly  swam  across  the  water. 

Swam  across  the  gloomy  water, 

O'er  the  mighty  Rotorua, 

O'er  the  lake  of  Rotorua, 


2  68  The  Legend  of  Hincmoa 

Guided  onl)-  by  the  music, 
Hincmoa  swam  on  bravely 
Through  the  dark  and  heaving  water, 
Till  she  reached  the  lonely  island, 
Reached  the  Rotorua  island; 
Then  uprose  before  her  lover 
In  her  innocence  and  beauty, 
In  the  silence  'mid  the  shadows — 
Gladly  welcomed,  fondly  vested 
In  a  woven  mat  of  feathers. 
In  a  mat  of  golden  feathers ; 
Then  conducted  to  his  Whare 
His  true  wife  to  be  henceforward. 
Drama  fair  of  Rotorua, 
Drama  of  the  days  departed, 
Of  the  beauteous  Hinemoa 
And  the  noble  Tutanekai, 
From  the  love-lore  of  the  Maori, 
From  the  ancient  Maori  legends, 
Told  by  chiefs  with  tattooed  faces. 
Told  by  lithesome  dusky  maidens. 
Told  by  youths  of  manly  grandeur, 
Who  count  backwards  in  their  lineage 
To  the  noble  Tutanekai 
And  the  peerless  Hinemoa. 

Margaret  A.  Sinclair. 


SOUTH    AFRICAN    POETRY 


SOUTH  AFRICAN   POETRY 


)) 


1909 

A  VISION  AND  A  CRY 

I  SAW  thee  set  upon  a  height, 
Midmost  a  wondrous  summer  night. 
Resting  an  elbow  on  thy  knee, 
Wistful,  thine  eyes  turned  towards  the  sea; 
And  Uke  sierras  black  and  vast 
The  ranges  round  thy  feet  were  cast; 
A  snake  of  silver,  dim  and  slow. 
Followed  each  river's  weary  flow, 
While  far  behind  the  ranges'  walls, 
Rose  the  dull  thunder  of  the  Falls; 
And  far  beneath  thy  sandal' d  feet. 
Clusters  of  fireflies  seemed  to  beat — 
As  where  some  Uttle  dorps  were  seen 
By  candle-dip  or  kerosene; 
Now,  ever,  Uke  a  brilliant  smoke, 
The  cities  by  the  coast  awoke; 
A  glare  that  burned  Uke  some  red  brand. 
Masked  the  night  labour  on  the  Rand, 
While  veld  and  city,  mine  and  sea. 
Commingled  in  this  poesie: 
Lo,  we  that  reap  the  grain. 
And  we  that  tend  the  kine, 
And  we  that  see  the  rain 
And  sunshine  fill  the  vine. 

And  we  that  take  the  drill  within  the  deepest  mine, 
For  gem  whose  burning  thrill 
Throbs  in  the  heart  hke  wine; 
For  gold  to  store  or  spend — 
(Or  break  your  heart  and  mine) — 
And  we  who  take  and  tend 
Whate'er  the  fates  assign; 
271 


272  South  Africa 


Whate'er  our  duties  be, 

By  veld  or  mine  or  sea, 

This  boon  we  crave  of  thee: 

Let  all  the  frontiers  go^ 

With  all  the  devil's  woe. 

Let  our  Five  Nations  glow, 

In  one  bright  diadem,  whate'er  the  cries, 

The  lesser  issues,  or  the  sacrifice. 

John  Runcie. 


SOUTH  AFRICA 

All  that  she  gave  us  was  tears, 
Sorrow  of  heart  and  of  head ; 

Land  of  bewildering  years, 
Woman  of  passion  and  dread. 

Others  were  fairer  than  she, 

Summer  was  sweet  in  their  eyes. 

Kindly  their  laughter  and  free, 
Women  to  love  and  to  prize. 

Yet  we  approved  not  their  worth, 
Man  after  man  in  his  mood 

Turned  to  this  creature  of  earth. 
Sullen  and  savage  and  rude; 

Gave  her  his  heart  for  a  toy. 
Her  without  pity  or  ruth, 

Gave  her  to  build  or  destroy 

Hopes  and  ambitions  and  youth. 

Careless  she  took  them  and  gave 

Terrible  gifts  in  return; 
Thirst  and  the  night  for  a  grave; 

Death  in  the  spaces  that  burn. 

What  is  her  charm  and  her  power? 

Scornful  she  takes  of  our  best, 
Makes  us  the  sport  of  an  hour. 

Flings  us  aside  with  the  rest. 


South  Africa  273 

Uncomprehended,  unknown, 

Still  she  attracts  and  allures; 
Still  on  the  steps  of  her  throne 

Blood  of  her  victims  endures. 


Something  she  has  that  compels 
Wonder  and  worship  through  pain, 

Vainly  her  lover  rebels, 

Striving  to  loosen  his  chain. 

Lo,  she  is  stronger  than  he ! 

Great  is  her  magic  and  wide, 
Stretching  its  spell  o'er  the  sea, 

Drawing  him  back  to  her  side. 

Many  have  wooed  her  with  heat. 

Proud  in  their  manhood  and  strength, 

Only  to  reel  in  defeat. 

Shattered  and  broken  at  length. 

Ah !  will  she  never  be  kind  ? 

Is  there  no  man  that  shall  prove 
Strong  to  embrace  her  and  find 

Sweetly  the  face  of  her  love? 

Surely  the  heart  of  her  keeps 
Splendour  of  passion,  and  dear 

Wealth  of  affection,  that  sleeps 
Mute  till  her  master  appear. 

Then  shall  she  bear  to  her  lord 

Children  of  glorious  breed. 
Warriors  wielding  the  sword. 

Statesmen  with  laws  for  her  needj 

Then  shall  the  branches  of  peace 
Prosper  and  spread  in  the  land, 

Commerce  expand  and  increase. 
Factories  rise  at  command. 


274  A  Song  in  Season 

Then  shall  her  poets  essay 

Wonderful  thoughts  of  her  dreams, 

Brush  of  her  painters  portray 
Hints  of  her  exquisite  gleams. 

Virgin  since  time  was  begun, 
Who  shall  attain  to  this  bride? 

None  hath  possessed  her,  not  one 
Touched  the  deep  heart  of  her  pride. 

F.  G.  Walrond. 


A  SONG  IN  SEASON 

I  HEARD  one  say:  Ye  have  so  little  faith 

In  this  great  land,  because  of  years  grown  lean, 

That  straightway  in  a  gust  of  wailing  breath, 
Your  words  come  harsh  and  mean. 

Fulfilled  in  aeons  lost  to  seer  or  scribe. 

Your  harvest  home  was  led  through  rock  and  loam, 
God  swept  aside  each  dark  and  murdering  tribe, 

For  men  to  make  a  home. 

From  war  and  tumult  ye  have  lain  forspent, 

Mouthing  at  quibbles  which  in  smiles  may  cease; 

And  turning  back  along  the  path  ye  went 
Ye  drown  the  eyes  of  Peace. 

By  grain  or  gold  or  gem  shall  ye  fulfil 
That  destiny  enscroUed  on  rock  and  mire  ? 

Nay,  not  by  these,  but  by  one  common  will 
That  may  not  halt  or  tire. 

Some  cry  a  curse  on  the  golden  dust. 

Holding  it  leagued  with  evil  for  our  bane; 

So,  too,  are  all  things  rank  with  pride  and  lust. 
So,  too,  are  all  things  vain. 

Roar  on,  0  Rand !  by  day  or  red-lit  night, 
I  see  men  build,  I  hear  the  roar  of  trade; 

Even  so  the  foundry  furnace,  wide  and  white. 
Shall  win  the  toilers'  bread. 


Little  Thornback  275 

I  see  the  sluices  opening  far  and  near 
On  famished  spaces  of  the  wan  Karroo, 

And  little  dorps  come  closer  year  by  year 
With  fields  and  orchards  new; 

Even  so  the  far-led  water  shall  attest 

The  mine's  wide  largesse  to  the  desert  brown, 

And  sweet  lucerne  against  the  fanner's  breast 
Shall  win  his  beeves  renown. 

Blue  hills  a-dream  in  hazes  of  the  noon, 

Wide  silent  spaces  of  the  lonely  sun, 
Wan  pastures  calling  for  their  only  boon, 

And,  oh,  so  much  undone ! 

So  much  undone !    The  decades  drifting  by. 

Gather  the  futile  dust  of  idle  days. 
While  underneath  your  blue  and  matchless  sky 

The  land's  smile  prayer  always. 

Bind  closer  race  to  race  and  state  to  state; 

Go  forward,  one  in  purpose,  faith,  and  aim ; 
They  live  the  best  who  labour  on,  elate. 

Through  sacrifice  and  shame. 

By  stamp  and  plough  and  furnace  ye  may  wake 
A  vast  and  federate  land  to  nobler  life; 

But  what  is  all  your  work  unless  ye  make 
An  end  of  racial  strife.? 


LITTLE  THORNBACK 

Amid  the  wind  and  spindrift  on  that  historic  day, 

Beneath  the  Blaauwberg  Mountains  the  stricken  Haarlem . 

Was  ever  gale  so  fraught  with  fate  again  in  Table  Bay  ? 

They  found  the  cool  sweet  water,  they  saw  the  land  was  good; 
Above  them  swung  the  splendid  sun,  o'er  mountain,  plain, 

and  wood. 
And  the  spirit  of  the  soil  cried  out,  and  lo !  they  understood. 


276  Paul  Krugcr 

Plere  was  the  land  for  willing  hands,  for  harvests  yet  unborn, 
For  goodly  vine,  and  pear  and  plum,  and  yellow  wheat  and 

corn; 
And  they  passed  the  word  to  homing  ships  and  home  the  word 

was  borne. 

And  who  looms  now  across  the  page  of  primal  storm  and 
stress  ? 

Van  Riebeck,  "  Little  Thomback,"  come  to  rule  the  wilder- 
ness, 

To  raise  the  fort,  and  build  the  hut,  to  guide  and  ban  and 
bless ; 

Quick-tempered,  keen  of  eye  and  ear,  the  little  doctor  seems. 
In  belted  coat  and  buckled  shoe,  more  of  romance  and 

dreams — 
A  man  set  out  in  some  rich  light  that  by  an  altar  streams. 

Great  days  were  those  of  conquest,  of  sacrifice  and  wrath. 
The  lion  roared  by  garden  gates,  the  leopard  watched  the 

path 
And  the  vanished  pools  of  Capetown  where  the  lumbering 

hippos  bath. 

In  these  large  days  of  progress  the  glory  seems  but  small; 
We  have  built  the  gleaming  city  o'er  the  old-time  fort  and 

kraal. 
And,  behold,  to  the  far  Zambesi  our  flag  waves  over  all — 

Yet  here  the  tale  beginneth,  whatever  pride  may  be, 
In  affluent  power  and  traffic  from  war  and  victory. 
With  the  keen-eyed  Little  Thomback  stepping  shoreward 
from  the  sea. 


PAUL  KRUGER 

Not  on  these  shores  his  bier  is  made, 
He  died  in  exile  far  away; 
Old,  old  and  weary,  broken,  gray. 

Glad  now  of  rest,  Oom  Paul  is  dead. 


Old  Kimberley  Days  277 

Not  ours  to  picture  in  this  hour 

His  vanished  dream,  his  humbled  pride; 
The  dead  sleep  gently  side  by  side, 

The  living  dream  of  pride  and  power. 

Great  will  of  adamant,  and  brain 

Begotten  of  the  storm  and  stress 

That  filled  the  wild  old  wilderness, 
And  mocked  at  toil,  and  grief,  and  pain — 

You  mocked  at  us,  and  scorned  our  aim, 
That,  set  in  freedom,  strives  to  make 
All  men  as  free  as  we,  who  break 

All  bonds  that  bind  with  hurt  and  shame. 

No  matter — all  the  decades  go 

To  dusty  death,  and  hate  decays ; 

Large  charity  outlives  always 
The  little  wrath  of  foe  and  foe. 

Farewell,  old  Paul !    We  too  may  feel 

Such  pride  as  any,  that  the  land 

Bears  such  as  thou  to  take  command 
In  other  years  of  woe  or  weal. 


OLD  KIMBERLEY  DAYS 

The  Inland  Transport  Company  have  taken  down  their  sign ; 
The  coaching  lights  of  Cobb  and  Co.  are  not  to-day  ashine. 

Ye  may  inspan  the  ox  or  mule  from  Wellington  again. 
And  cross  the  Hex  in  sun  and  dust  or  drenched  and  swamped 
in  rain. 

But  not  in  Kimberley  to-day  shall  trek  that  sanguine  brood : 
Who  sat  and  smoked  and  talked  and  slept  beneath  a  waggon 
hood. 

The  red  dust  flashed  within  their  throats  and  baked  their 

flesh  like  clay. 
And  if  the  whiskey  held,  the  Lord  was  gracious  all  the  way. 


278  Old  Kimberley  Days 

Not  all  were  of  the  hardened  palm  and  spatulated  thumb — 
Sign  manual  of  the  digger's  craft  to  each  prospective  chum. 

By  kopjes  bare  of  tree  or  bush  and  fumaced  in  the  sun; 
Where  boulders  lay  with  blackened  flanks  in  lumps  of  twenty 
ton — 

By  dongas  where  the  snake  out-poured  its  dozen  feet  of  coil ; 
And  hissed  against  the  faring  foot  that  crumbled  down  the 
soil. 

So  rose  the  callous  brow  of  dawn,  so  flared  the  staring  noon ; 
So  came  the  big-eyed  evening  star  that  piloted  the  moon. 

Through  stinging  dust  that  powdered  up  at  passing  hoof  or 

wheel ; 
Through  flashing  rain  that  smote  the  veld  in  many  a  gash  and 

weal — 

They  saw  the  meercat  haunched  beside  the  conical  ant  hill; 
The  heavy  paauw's  unwieldly  flight,  the  vulture's  iron  bill. 

Lean  jackals  slouching  through  the  still  and  strange  be- 
jewelled gloom. 

While  bleating  far  away  foretold  some  ewe's  or  wether's 
doom. 

Such  vastness  largely-eyed  with  stars,  which  then  as  now 

ashine, 
Had  calcined  in  the  world's  red  youth  the  light  that  gemmed 

the  mine. 

Such  vastness  of  the  secret  deeps  that  locked  away  in  night 
The  "  white  stuff  "  won  with  pick  and  spade  and  now  with 
dynamite. 

Such  vastness   to   the  slim  youth's  eyes   from  Christ's  or 

Magdalene's, 
Such  vastness  to  the  wastrel's  eyes  grown  bleered  in  vile 

shebeens. 


Old  Kimberley  Days  279 

In  different  wise  the  brown  veld  sloped  athwart  each  eager 

soul, 
The  folly  of  the  stintless  cup,  or  ease,  or  power,  the  goal. 

So  came  the  hobo  of  the  world,  the  strong  man  and  the  weak; 
The  "  bloke  "  from  Seven  Dials  and  the  "  toff  "  that  rhymed 
in  Greek. 

And  leavened  all  by  common  toil  with  rocker,  pick,  and  spade. 
They  found  the  grace  of  sympathy  among  the  friends  they 
made. 

Large-hearted  to  the  broken  chum  athirst  and  down  at  heel, 
They  held  no  briefs  from  Exeter  Hall  against  the  "  ne'er-do- 
weel." 

They  raked  no  past  from  out  the  mire  of  half-forgotten  years; 
Du  Toit's  Pan  road  was  wider  then  and  hid  away  their  fears. 

Ah,  little  specks  of  rocker  left  among  its  curious  dross; 

The  garnets  and  the  crystal  slag,  what  ruled  the  gain  or  loss  ? 

An  awful  soak  in  vile  champagne  in  some  tin-roofed  caboose  ? 
The  price  of  Mignon's  silken  gown  or  Renee's  lacquered 
shoes? 

Or  cast  upon  the  ample  pile  that  made  the  dealer  stare, 
The  wise  man  saw  the  fruited  hope  of  all  his  toil  and  care. 

By  flawless  carats  cut  and  set  upon  some  bosom  fair; 

Or  hung  like  stars  amid  the  night  that  was  some  lady's  hair — 

The  dreamer  bare  of  arm  and  breast  who  found  his  dreams  as 

frail 
As  aureoles  above  his  pipe,  beheld  his  dream  prevail. 

In  crown  and  sceptre  flames  the  light  the  digger  washed  to 

view. 
And  on  the  finger  of  a  maid,  to  show  that  love  is  true. 

The  rocker  swung  for  rich  and  poor  in  those  rough  days  fore- 
done, 
When  rich  and  poor  at  Kimberley  were  diggers  every  one. 


2  8o  Adventure 

When  claims  on  Colesberg  Kopje  marked  the  highest  grade  of 

"  swell." 
Who  boiled  his  copper  billy  and  washed  his  shirt  as  well. 

From  ghettos  of  the  North  and  South,  from  Teuton  coast  or 

vale, 
From  British  shire  and  Latin  slope  they  sought  the  digger's 

Grail. 

They  found  in  mire  the  hidden  trove  or  tramped  away  at  last; 
Sundowners  steering  for  the  coast,  to  ship  before  the  mast. 

But  largely  writ  on  Kimberley,  the  labour  and  the  name. 
Of  one  who  dreamt  a  Titan  dream  upon  his  digger's  claim. 

Who  took  the  gems  from  out  the  mine  to  light  his  own  path- 
way, 
That  pierced  within  the  wilderness  wherein  he  lies  to-day. 

Strong-willed  to  tide  through  early  loss  and  bitter  years  that 

spent 
Their  fury  on  the  work  he  made  along  the  path  he  went. 

Who  turned  betimes  from  Titan  schemes  to  fancies  quaint  and 

old— 
A  vase,  a  chair,  a  rare  carafe,  or  medal  chased  and  scrolled. 

Who  laid  his  paths  for  all  to  tread  mid  lavender  and  rose, 
In  artless  art,  while  grasses  grow  and  gracious  water  flows. 


ADVENTURE 

Above  the  soundless  tide  that  flowed 
Blood-red  athwart  the  wounded  sun. 

There  floated  from  her  far  abode. 
The  Maiden  Perilous;  she  is  one 

I  had  long  read  of  in  a  book, 

Who  fetters  all  men  by  a  look. 


Adventure  281 

Her  lips  were  full  and  taunting  sweet, 

Her  eyes'  large  lustre  pierced  me  through; 

And  wreathed  about  her  hidden  feet, 
A  fiower-like  stole  in  circles  blew; 

She  looked  but  once,  and  passed  me  by. 

Uplifting  swiftly  in  the  sky. 

Disdain  was  in  her  brilliant  smile, 

And  scorn  to  wound  her  lovers  true, 
For  well  she  knows  the  powerful  wile 

Of  tardy  favours,  far  and  few; 
And  in  my  heart  arose  a  cry: 
"  Lo !  I  will  seek  thee  till  I  die." 

Warm  hearts  foreclosed  an  ancient  bond, 
And  dared  me  then  the  price  to  pay; 

"  If  ye  should  seek  the  world  beyond, 
Then  hearken  to  the  word  we  say — 

So  will  ye  bring  us  to  the  dust, 

By  this,  your  wild,  world-faring  lust." 

I  hearkened,  praying:  "  Let  me  bide 

Within  the  hearthlight  till  I  die;  " 
And  as  I  prayed,  I  saw  the  tide 

Blood-red  athwart  the  purple  sky; 
And  mocking  sweet  the  Maiden  came 
And  thrilled  me  through  with  love  and  shame. 

Am  I  the  least  of  them  that  see 

The  challenge  in  her  brilliant  eyes 
That  I  should  tarry  ?     Woe  is  me, 

Since  I  am  young,  and  age  is  wise; 
Albeit  can  ye  chain  the  tide, 
Or  keep  the  winds  from  wandering  wide? 

For  as  the  tide  must  follow  when 

The  Lady  Moon  serenely  wills. 
And  as  the  winds  arise  and  fare 

Beyond  the  colder  seas  and  hills, 
0  Lady!  I  must  follow  thee 
Over  the  mountains  and  the  sea. 

John  Runcie. 


282  The  Call  of  the  Veld 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  VELD 

What  siren  has  taught  you  to  call  us 

Where  wind-swept  lands  sigh  for  the  rains? 
Who  gave  you  the  lures  to  enthral  us, 

0  drought-stricken  plains? 
Ah,  but  the  clear  Hght  of  dawning ! 

Ah,  but  the  freedom  it  spelt! 
The  limitless  width  of  life's  morning, 

The  call  of  the  Veld ! 

No  land  of  your  sons  has  bereft  you, 

No  magic  can  make  them  forget, 
For  those  who  have  loved  you  and  left  you 

They  dream  of  you  yet. 
They  dream  of  the  brown  and  red  grasses. 

The  homestead  where  once  they  have  dwelt; 
They  hear  on  the  wind  as  it  passes. 

The  call  of  the  Veld ! 

And  we  who  have  seen  of  Ufe's  treasure. 

And  hunger  of  travel  have  known, 
Have  drunken  our  fill  of  its  pleasure 

Till  weary  we've  grown; 
And  then  with  the  sob  that  comes  after 

The  mirth,  as  our  throbbing  hearts  melt, 
We  hear  above  sound  of  our  laughter. 

The  call  of  the  Veld. 

We  yearn  for  the  home  when  we're  tired, 

Horizons  where  veld  and  sky  meet. 
To  shake  off  the  dust  that  has  mired 

Our  wandering  feet. 
All  wonder  of  love  in  new  semblance. 

Strange  gods  at  whose  altars  we  knelt. 
Are  naught  when  we  call  to  remembrance 

The  god  of  the  Veld. 

Whose  pathway  is  o'er  the  blue  mountains, 
Whose  breath  is  the  keen-scented  air. 

Whose  stonn-clouds  have  hollowed  the  fountains 
And  made  the  veld  fair. 


The  Spirit  of  Hidden  Places        283 

To  haunt  us  in  joy  or  in  weeping, 
Whichever  our  fate  may  have  dealt, 

To  give  us  at  last  a  long  sleeping 
Safe  under  the  Veld ! 

Mary  Byron. 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  HIDDEN  PLACES 

Over  the  mountain's  shoulder,  round  the  unweathered  cape. 
In  lands  beyond  the  sky-line,  there  hides  a  nameless  shape, 
Whether  of  friend  or  goddess,  no  mortal  well  may  know; 
But  when  she  speaks — with  flushing  cheeks,  they  one  by  one 
must  go. 

To  men  in  far  old  cities,  scanning  the  curious  chart. 
Her  voice  would  sound  at  midnight  like  music  in  the  heart; 
Across  the  wrinkled  parchment  a  glory  seemed  to  fall, 
And  pageants  pass  like  shapes  in  glass  along  the  pictured 
wall. 

She  led  the  sails  of  Lisbon  beyond  the  Afric  shore; 
Winning  a  world  of  wonders  by  seas  unknown  before. 
She  watched  the  sturdy  captains  of  Holland's  India  fleet 
Planting  their  post  on  that  grim  coast  where  the  two  oceans 
meet. 

Yea,  and  in  earlier  ages,  what  ghostly  race  were  they 
Who  left  the  eastward  waters  to  tread  the  inland  way? 
Who  bore  the  gold  of  Ophir  and  built  the  tower  of  stone — 
But  left  no  sign  save  empty  mine,  and  rampart  overthrown. 

But  others  find  their  footsteps,  and  strike  the  trail  anew. 
How  fared  the  burghers  onward  across  the  wild  Karroo ! 
And  still,  with  hand  at  bridle  and  eyes  that  search  the  wind, 
With  strain  and  stress,  the  white  men  press  that  mocking 
sprite  to  find. 

We  seek  her  by  the  valley — she  moves  upon  the  height; 
The  rainbow  stands  athwart  us  to  blind  her  from  our  sight ; 
Along  the  sea-bound  bastion  her  steps  are  hid  in  spray. 
And  though  we  dream — with  morning  gleam  the  lustre  dies 
away. 


284 


Afar  in  the  Desert 


Yet  sometimes  for  a  moment  men  think  to  feel  her  nigh: 
When  first  the  lost  Moon  Mountain  unveils  to  Stanley's  eye; 
Or  when  the  great  white  wanderer  beheld  Zambesi  leap 
With   earthquake  -  stroke  and   sounding   smoke   down   the 
stupendous  steep. 

And  then  again  we  lose  her,  for  lack  of  wizard  skill, 

Only  the  message  liveth,  that  tells  us,  Further  still  I 

Yet  could  we  come  upon  her,  and  seize,  and  hold  her  fast. 

The  onward  track  would  something  lack  of  its  old  magic  past. 

No  secret  on  the  ridges,  no  whisper  in  the  air, 
No  sense  of  paths  untrodden,  no  shadow  anywhere; 
Earth  robbed  of  half  her  glamour,  and  ocean  void  of  awe — 
The  proud  pursuit  that  brings  not  fruit  is  man's  eternal  law. 

Lance  Fallaw. 


AFAR  IN  THE  DESERT 

{Abridged) 

Afar  in  the  desert  I  love  to  ride. 

With  the  silent  bush-boy  alone  by  my  side; 

Away,  away  from  the  dwellings  of  men. 

By  the  wild  deers'  haunt,  by  the  buffaloes'  glen; 

By  valleys  remote  where  the  oribi  plays, 

Where  the  gnu,  the  gazelle,  and  the  hartebeeste  graze; 

And  the  kudu  and  eland  unhunted  recline 

By  the  skirts  of  grey  forests  o'erhung  with  wild  vine; 

Where  the  elephant  browses  at  peace  in  his  wood. 

And  the  river-horse  gambols  unscared  in  the  flood; 

And  the  mighty  rhinoceros  wallows  at  will 

In  the  fen  where  the  wild  ass  is  drinking  his  fill. 

Afar  in  the  desert  I  love  to  ride. 
With  the  silent  bush-boy  alone  by  my  side; 
O'er  the  brown  Karroo,  where  the  bleating  cry 
Of  the  springbok's  fawn  sounds  plaintively; 
And  the  timorous  quagga's  shrill  wheedling  neigh 
Is  heard  by  the  fountain  by  twilight  grey; 
Where  the  zebra  wantonly  tosses  his  mane, 
\\\x\\  wild  hoof  siouiiiig  the  desolate  plain; 


Afar  in  the  Desert  285 

And  the  fleet-footed  ostrich  over  the  waste 
Speeds  Uke  a  horseman  who  travels  in  haste, 
Hieing  away  to  the  home  of  her  rest, 
Where  she  and  her  mate  have  scooped  their  nest, 
Far  hid  from  the  pitiless  plunderer's  view 
In  the  pathless  depths  of  the  wild  Karroo. 

Afar  in  the  desert  I  love  to  ride, 

With  the  silent  bush-boy  alone  by  my  side; 

Away,  away,  in  the  wilderness  vast 

Where  the  white  man's  foot  hath  never  passed; 

And  the  quivered  Coranna  or  Bechuan 

Hath  rarely  crossed  with  his  roving  clan; 

A  region  of  emptiness,  howling  and  drear, 

Which  man  hath  abandoned  from  famine  or  fear; 

Which  the  snake  and  the  lizard  inhabit  alone. 

With  the  twihght  bat  from  the  yawning  stone; 

Where  grass  nor  herb  nor  shrub  takes  root. 

Save  poisonous  thorns  that  pierce  the  foot; 

And  the  bitter-melon,  for  food  and  drink. 

Is  the  pilgrim's  fare,  by  the  salt  lake's  brink; 

A  region  of  drought,  where  no  river  gHdes, 

Nor  rippling  brook  with  osiered  sides; 

Where  sedgy  pool,  nor  bubbling  fount, 

Nor  tree,  nor  cloud,  nor  misty  mount. 

Appears  to  refresh  the  aching  eye; 

But  the  barren  earth  and  the  burning  sky. 

And  the  blank  horizon,  round  and  round. 

Spreads,  void  of  living  sight  and  sound. 

Aiid  here,  while  the  night  winds  round  me  sigh, 

And  the  stars  bum  bright  in  the  midnight  sky, 

As  I  sit  apart  by  the  desert  stone, 

Like  Elijah  at  Horeb's  cave  alone, 

"  A  still  small  voice  "  comes  through  the  wild 

(Like  a  father  consoling  a  fretful  child). 

Which  banishes  bitterness,  wrath,  and  fear — 

Saying,  "  Man  is  distant,  but  God  is  near!  " 


286  Namaqualand 


THE  CORANNA i 

Fast  by  his  wild  resounding  river 
The  hstless  Coran  lingers  ever; 
Still  drives  his  heifers  forth  to  feed, 
Soothed  by  the  Gonah's  humming  reed; 
A  rover  still  unchecked  will  range, 
As  humour  calls  or  seasons  change; 
His  tents  of  mats  and  leathern  gear 
Are  packed  upon  the  patient  steer. 
Mid  all  his  wanderings  hating  toil, 
He  never  tills  the  stubborn  soil; 
But  on  the  milky  dams  relies, 
And  what  spontaneous  earth  supplies. 
Should  some  long  parching  droughts  prevail 
And  milk  and  bulbs  and  locusts  fail. 
He  lays  him  down  to  sleep  away 
In  languid  trance  the  weary  day; 
Oft  as  he  feels  gaunt  hunger's  stound, 
Still  tightening  famine's  girdle  round; 
Lulled  by  the  sound  of  the  Gareep,^ 
Beneath  the  willows  murmuring  deep; 
Till  thunder-clouds  surcharged  with  rain 
Pour  o'er  due  o'er  the  panting  plain. 
And  call  the  famished  dreamer  from  his  trance, 
To  feed  on  milk  and  game,  and  wake  the  moonlight  dance. 

Thomas  Pringle. 


NAMAQUALAND 

A  LAND  of  deathful  sleep,  where  fitful  dreams 

Of  hurrying  spring  scarce  wake  swift  fading  flowers; 

A  land  of  fieckless  sky,  and  sheer-shed  beams 

Of  sun  and  stars  through  day's  and  dark's  slow  hours; 

A  land  where  sand  has  choked  once  fluent  streams — 
Where  grassless  plains  begirt  by  granite  towers 

1  An  inland  tribe,  mentioned  by   Livingstone  and  other  African 
travellers. 

*  The  Orange  River. 


'Nkongane  287 

That  fright  the  swift  and  heaven-nurtured  teams 

Of  winds  that  bear  afar  the  sea-gleaned  showers. 
The  wild  Atlantic,  fretted  by  the  breath 

Of  fiery  gales  o'er  leagues  of  desert  sped, 
Rolls  back  and  wreaks  in  surf  its  thunderous  wrath 

On  rocks  that  round  the  wan  wide  shore  are  spread ; 
The  waves  for  ever  roar  a  song  of  death. 

The  shore  they  roar  to  is  for  ever  dead. 


'NKONGANE 

Old — some  eighty,  or  thereabouts; 

Sly  as  a  badger  alert  for  honey ; 

Honest  perhaps — but  I  have  my  doubts — 

With  an  eye  that  snaps  at  the  clink  of  money : 

Poor  old  barbarian,  your  Christian  veneer 

Is  thin  and  cracked,  and  the  core  inside 

Is  heathen  and  natural.  •  Quaint  and  queer 

Is  your  aspect,  and  yet,  withal,  dignified. 

When  your  lips  unlock  to  the  taste  of  rum, 

The  tongue  runs  on  with  its  cackle  of  clicks — 

That  like  bubbles  break  as  their  consonants  come. 

For  your  speech  is  a  brook  full  of  frisky  tricks. 

You  love  to  recall  the  days  of  old — 

That  are  sweet  to  us  all,  for  the  alchemist  Time 

Strangely  touchest  the  basest  metals  to  gold, 

And  to-day's  jangled  peal  wakes  to-morrow's  rich  chime. 

But  not  the  past  in  a  moony  haze. 
That  shines  for  us  sons  of  Europe,  is  yours — 
You  glow  with  the  ardour  of  bloodstained  days 
And  deeds  long  past — you  were  one  of  the  doers — 
Of  spears  washed  red  in  the  blood  of  foes. 
Of  villages  wrapped  in  red  flame,  of  fields 
Where  the  vulture  gorged,  of  the  deadly  close 
Of  the  impi's  horns,  and  the  thundering  shields. 

Strange  old  man — like  a  lonely  hawk 
In  a  leafless  forest  that  falls  to  the  axe, 


288  The  Bushman's  Cave 

You  linger  on;   and  you  love  to  talk, 
Yet  your  tongue  full  often  a  listener  lacks. 
Truth  and  fiction,  like  chaff  and  grain, 
You  mix  together;  and  often  I  try 
To  sift  the  one  from  the  other,  and  gain 
The  fact  from  its  shell  of  garrulous  lie. 

You  were  young  when  Chaka,  the  scourge  of  man, 
Swept  over  the  land  like  the  Angel  of  Death, 
You  marched  in  the  rear,  when  the  veteran  van 
Mowed  down  the  armies — reapers  of  wrath ! 
You  sat  on  the  ground  in  the  crescent,  and  laid 
Your  shield  down  flat  when  Dingan  spoke  loud — 
His  vitals  pierced  by  the  murderer's  blade — 
To  his  warriors  fierce,  in  dread  anguish  bowed. 

And  now  to  this :  to  cringe  for  a  shilling. 

To  skulk  round  the  mission-house,  hungry  and  lone; 

To  carry  food  to  the  women  tilling 

The  fields  of  maize !  For  ever  have  flown 

The  days  of  the  spear  that  the  rust  has  eaten. 

The  days  of  the  ploughshare  suit  you  not; 

Time  hath  no  gift  that  your  lot  can  sweeten, 

A  living  death  is  your  piteous  lot. 


THE  BUSHMAN'S  CAVE 

I  STAND  behind  the  waterfall 

That  downward  shoots,  till  spent  in  spray, 
It  clinging  clasps  the  rocky  wall 

That  beetles  o'er  the  river  way; 
A  secret  cave  is  here  fast  tied 

In  swathing  bands  of  forest  dense, 
A  casket  with  a  rocky  lid. 

Within  the  stream's  circumference. 

'Tis  here  the  vanished  bushman  dwelt — 
He,  with  his  brood,  long  years  ago — 


The  Bushman's  Cave  289 

Beneath  this  ledge;  and  deftly  spelt, 

In  pictures  that  still  freshly  glow, 
The  wild-wood  creatures,  not  more  wild 

Than  he,  who,  hiding  thus  apart, 
His  idle  days  and  hours  beguiled 

At  his  strange,  harmless  limning  art. 

Here  human  creatures  hoped  and  loved, 

And  feared  and  hated  in  their  turn — 
Rejoiced  when  fortune  kindly  proved, 

And  over  life's  despites  did  mourn; 
Here  women  nursed  their  babes,  here  maids 

Oft  listened  to  their  lovers  rude; 
Here  death  has  thrown  a  deeper  shade 

Of  darkness  o'er  the  gloomy  wood. 

There  in  the  cleft  is  still  the  mark 

Of  bygone  fires  whose  flames  are  dead 
As  those  who  lit  them — life's  strange  spark 

And  glowing  ember,  each  has  sped. 
And  by  the  south  wind's  gentle  sigh 

The  flickering  sunlit  leaves  are  turned 
And  from  the  cliffs  the  brown  hawks  cry 

To-day  as  when  each  brightly  burned. 

Through  fancy's  glass  I  see  around 

The  shades  of  long  dead  forms  arisen; 
They  move  and  breathe  without  a  sound, 

And  live  in  their  brief  poet-season; 
There  he  their  bows,  their  arrows  keen, 

Whilst  on  the  fire  an  earthen  pot 
Holds,  simmering  slowly,  foul  and  green 

The  arrow-poison's  foetid  clot. 

There  lies  an  antelope,  fresh  killed. 

By  hungry  stomachs  close  surrounded, 
And  there's  a  wicker-basket  filled 

With  luscious  locusts,  freshly  pounded; 
And  look  the  glowing  coals  upon 

A  scaly  snake  is  slowly  toasting. 
Whilst  on  that  ledge,  there  in  the  sun. 

The  hunters  of  their  deeds  are  boasting. 


290 


Two  Graves 

'Tis  gone;  'twas  but  a  glimpse,  a  flash, 

That  for  an  instant  lit  the  past; 
I  see  now  but  the  water  dash 

In  quivering  spray-sheets  downward  cast, 
And  on  the  rocks,  in  deathless  hue, 

The  records  of  a  perished  race. 
That  from  this  land  of  ours  withdrew 

In  silence,  leaving  scarce  a  trace. 

Poor  waifs  upon  creation's  skirts, 

Your  melancholy  history. 
To  men  of  earnest  mind,  asserts 

A  problem  and  a  mystery: 
Whence  came  ye?     Wherefore  did  ye  live 

To  wither  from  the  sphere  of  being  ? 
And  why  did  nature  to  you  give 

No  ears  to  hear,  no  eyes  for  seeing — 

The  music  and  the  light,  whereby 

All  men  must  walk,  to  guide  your  steps 
Along  hfe's  path  beneath  the  sky. 

Between  the  snaring  pitfalls'  depths  ? 
Ye  sank  from  something  higher  far. 

And,  distanced  in  Ufe's  struggling  race, 
Your  last  and  failing  remnants  are 

Erased  from  ofi  the  great  world's  face. 


TWO  GRAVES 

{Dr.  Livingstone's  and  His  Wife's) 

I 

The  one  Ues  low  beneath  a  tropic  sun, 

Where  huge  Zambesi — spent  and  tired  of  rage. 

And  silent  after  roarings,  and  the  leap 

From  heights,  the  wonder  of  the  world — slow  glides, 

And  presses  ocean  backwards  in  his  strength. 

It  holds  the  dust  of  what  was  once  a  woman, 

A  woman,  who  from  distant  Scotland  came 

To  help  her  hero-husband  to  maintain — 


Two  Graves  291 

As  errant  knight  of  God,  in  foremost  rank — 

The  peaceful  war  of  love,  and  truth,  and  light. 

Against  the  hordes  of  darkness,  hate,  and  death 

She  came;  and  three  short  months  had  scarcely  gone 

When  fiery  fever  held  her  in  his  grip; 

Then  death  came,  and  from  ruined  body  drew 

The  faithful  soul,  and  rendered  it  to  God. 

No  woman's  hand  was  there  to  flicker  cool, 

And  drop  its  balmful  touches  on  her  brow; 

No  thought  of  piteous  comfort  might  she  take, 

That  in  some  holy  spot  amongst  the  tombs 

That  held  her  kindred's  ashes,  hers  would  be 

A  shrine  for  love's  devotion  to  adorn. 

Alas !    She  knew  that  he  whose  hot  tears  fell 

Upon  her  dying  face,  ay,  even  he. 

Her  husband,  might  not  Hnger  by  her  grave. 

But,  by  the  trumpet  tones  of  duty  called. 

Must  hasten  onward,  even  to  his  death. 

II 

Within  the  lofty  fane  where  sacred  dust 

Of  heroes,  saints,  and  singers  Ue  in  state. 

His  bones  are  laid.    He  died  upon  his  knees. 

Alone,  and  far  from  s^Tnpathy  of  man, 

His  head  upon  his  buckler  Bible  laid; 

Weary  and  spent,  he  answered  to  the  call 

When  God  said  to  His  servant,  "  Come  and  rest." 

And  faithful  hands  then  bore  his  body  far 

O'er  swamps  and  desert-sands  unto  the  sea; 

And  heaven's  winds  swift  wafted  it  across 

The  sea-fields  to  the  far  sea-girded  isle 

Whose  son  he  was;  and  Britain,  with  one  voice 

Of  reverent  mourning,  voted  him  her  first 

And  highest  honour,  and  with  sad  acclaim 

Bestowed  a  seat  in  the  high  Pantheon 

Of  famed  Westminster, 

III 

Though  their  dust  apart 
Is  separated  by  the  Lybian  waste. 
That  stretches  from  the  Mountains  of  the  Moon 


292  Song  of  the  Seasons 

To  where  old  Atlas  stands  and  tells  the  sky 
The  secrets  of  the  desert  and  the  lore 
Of  his  wild  daughter  Ocean;  tho'  the  curve 
Of  the  world's  strong  shoulders  swells  between; 
Yet  sure  they  are  together. 


SONG  OF  THE  SEASONS 

What  says  the  antelope, 
Crouched  in  the  fern? 
Winter  is  cold, 

When  will  spring-time  return? 
Moist  wind  from  the  sea,  set  the  fountains  aflowing. 
Hie  hitherward,  spring,  set  the  wild  flowers  blowing. 

What  says  the  snake. 

As  he  creeps  from  the  shadow? 
Summer  bides  far, 

Spring  is  chill  in  the  meadow. 
Sun  climb  aloft,  slanted  beams  quicken  slowly; 
Sheer-shed,  they  warm  both  the  high  and  the  lowly. 

What  says  the  lory. 

Hoarse  from  the  spray? 
Autumn  brings  fruit 
After  summer  alway. 
Droop  flowers  vain,  for  your  mission  is  ended. 
To  bear  the  seed-babes  was  your  beauty  intended. 

What  says  the  world? 

Winter's  my  rest; 
After  a  revel — 
Slumber  is  best. 
Sigh,  sad  south  wind,  o'er  the  wild  ocean  faring. 
From  ice-fields  afar  your  white  frost  burthen  bearing. 

W.  C.  Scully. 


The  Pioneer  293 


THE  PIONEER 

A  LITTLE  mound  on  the  mountain,  a  little  cross  in  the  clay, 
And  wheel-spoor  filling  with  water  where  the  waggons  tum'd 

away; 
A  trampled  break  in  the  long  grass  where  the  cattle  were 

inspann'd, 
And  the  Pioneer  has  wander'd  to  look  for  his  newer  land. 

The  clouds  still  hung  on  the  skyline,  the  grass  still  bent  with 

the  rain, 
When  the  crows  came  back  to  the  outspan  to  peck  for  wasted 

grain, 
And  a  jackal  tripp'd  to  the  clearing  to  nuzzle,  and  tremble, 

and  peer, 
And  to  scratch,  'tween  whiles  of  waiting,  the  tomb  of  the 

Pioneer. 

Only  a  jackal  anigh  him  in  the  bed  where  he  is  laid. 

And  six  lone  feet  of  the  highveld  by  the  road  that  he  had 

made 
For  the  feet  of  the  coming  peoples,  far  back  and  so  long  ago — 
Yet  they  cursed  his  road  for  an  ape-track  .  .  .  Ah,  brother, 

they  did  not  know ! 

He  was  the  bravest  among  them,  he  was  the  pick  of  the  crowd, 
Dauntless,  and  frugal,  and  cunning;    tireless,  blooded,  and 

proud. 
But  he  gave  his  pride  to  his  people,  and  he  spill'd  his  blood 

for  the  land. 
And  he  alter'd,  and  alter' d,  and  alter'd — and  they  could  not 

understand.  ... 

He  was  the  first  man  to  venture,  he  was  the  first  man  to  find ! 
Trusting  his  life  to  his  rifle,  groping  ahead  in  the  blind ! 
Seeking  new  lands  for  his  people ! — This  is  the  end  of  the  day, 
A  Httle  mound  on  the  mountain,  a  little  cross  in  the  clay; 

A  hungry  jackal  above  him,  a  sombre  flock  of  crows, 
A  trampled  break  on  the  highveld  where  the  sour  hill-grass 
grows, 


294  The  Hunting  of  Shumba 

And  six  lone  feet  in  the  bleakness  where  the  weeping  hill- 
winds  sough, 

For  his  work  is  done  and  accomplish'd,  and — he  is  not 
wanted  now. 

This  is  the  end  of  his  labour,  this  is  the  end  of  his  play: — 
Fresh  wheel-spoor,  filling  with  water,  where  the  waggons 

turned  away; 
Cold  sleep  on  the  sodden  upland  that  he  was  the  first  to  find. 
And  never  a  voice  to  mourn  him,  but  the  voice  of  the  wet 

hill- wind. 

A  little  brown  in  the  greenness,  an  empty  tin  by  the  trail, 
Smoke-wreaths  sinking  to  leeward  as  the  dying  fires  fail ; 
Pattering  paws  above  him,  and  hungry  eyes  that  peer. 
Is  the  end  of  a  gallant  venture  ;  the  pay  of  the  Pioneer. 


THE  HUNTING  OF  SHUMBA 
"  Now  Cometh  the  old  lion  from  the  pool." — Stephen  Phillips. 


The  hairs  about  his  muzzle  tipp'd  with  wet; 

The  last  sun  glinting  on  his  tawny  mane, 
And  burnishing  his  hide;  veil'd  eyes  that  yet 

So  slumbrous-solemn  flash  and  slowly  wane. 

Veil'd  slumbrous-solemn  eyes,  that  half-asleep 
Seem  utter-careless  of  the  wild  around ; 

Soft  seeming-careless  steps  that  seek  the  deep 
Gloom'd  bush — but  give  no  shadow  of  a  sound. 

Loose-limb'd,  he  slouches  shambling  in  the  cool; 

Head  down,  hide  rippling  over  lazy  might; 
Thoughtful  and  terrible  he  leaves  the  pool — 

Shumba  the  Lion,  passing  to  the  night. 


Umfeti,  the  Witch  Doctor         295 

n 
A  grass-blade  breaking! 
Swift,  in  awful  calm, 

The  mighty  limbs  at  length  along  the  ground; 
Steel  muscles  tightening — 
A  sense  of  harm, 
Intangible  ...  no  shadow  of  a  sound.  .  .  . 

But  savage  eyes  unveil'd, 

Intense  as  death; 

Purs'd  lips  and  lower'd  ears  and  bated  breath. 

Dread  vigour  hail'd 

From  every  nerve  and  tissue — crouching  there 

Blent  with  grass — incarnate,  awful  fear  ! 

A  leap — a  scream — a  thud ; 

And  it  is  done. 

Silence  awhile,  and  the  hot  smell  of  blood. 

Silence,  then  slowly,  with  the  sinking  sun, 

The  rend  of  flesh,  .  .  .  The  crickets  wake  and  sing. 

The  frogs  take  up  their  song,  the  night-jars  wing 

Weird  in  the  azure  dusk.    As  had  been  will'd. 

Chance  brought  him  food;  and  Fate  has  been  fulfilled. 


UMFETI,  THE  WITCH  DOCTOR 

Here,  where  the  gnona  ^  bask 

But  fifty  yards  away, 
Under  a  wither'd  palm 

Where  children  never  play — 
Sacred  to  him  alone. 

This  strip  of  baking  land — 
'Feti  the  Witch  Doctor, 

Sits  on  the  sand. 

Here  where  the  lizards  climb 
Over  his  shrunken  limbs. 

Kindly  the  great  sun  shines, 
Kindly  the  great  sun  dims 

^  Gnona,  crocodiles. 


296         Umfeti,  the  Witch  Doctor 

Thoughts  of  the  sombre  past, 
Thoughts  of  the  horrors  done; 

Teti,  the  Witch  Doctor, 
Nods  in  the  sun. 


High  in  the  depthless  blue 

The  circhng  vultures  wheel, 
Over  the  burning  sand 

Their  silent  shadows  steal — 
Over  the  aged  man 

Silent  a  shadow  flits: 
*Feti,  the  Witch  Doctor, 

Sleeps  where  he  sits. 

Utter  the  silence  reigns. 

The  lazy  lizards  sleep, 
Even  the  fishes  doze 

Down  in  the  river's  deep. — 
Back  to  the  wither'd  palm. 

Chin  on  his  sunken  chest: 
'Feti,  the  Witch  Doctor, 

Dreams  in  his  rest. 

The  magic  bones  have  slipp'd 

Out  of  the  shrivell'd  hand 
Down  to  the  magic  bag 

Propp'd  in  the  shimmering  sand; 
But  all  his  rest  has  gone, 

And  all  forgetting  fled: 
'Feti,  the  Witch  Doctor, 

Speaks  with  the  dead. 

Out  of  the  writhing  void, 

Out  of  the  creeping  dark. 
There  comes  the  form  of  her  .  .  . 

That  is  he  speaking — hark ! 
(Blacker  the  darkness  grows, 

Thicker  the  shadows  lie) 
"  Umfeti,  Witch  Doctor, 

Jiwa  must  die." 


Umfeti,  the  Witch  Doctor         297 

Jiwa!    His  secret  love, 

Child  of  the  mighty  King ! 
Never!    Imambo!  .  .  .  but 

Grimly  the  echoes  ring^ 
Echo  on  echo  wails 

Mockingly  monotone, 
Mocking  the  Witch  Doctor: 

"  King,  it  is  done." 


Down  to  the  river's  brink 

Go  girls  to  fetch  water, 
Stop  they  at  sight  of  him, 

The  father  of  slaughter, 
Stop  with  averted  eyes, 

Tremble  and  curtsey  deep: 
Tremble  at  sight  of  him 

Sitting  asleep. 

He  is  the  touch  of  death, 

He  is  the  fear'd  of  all, 
Chiefs  shake  at  sight  of  him, 

And  the  warriors  tall 
Shuffle  uneasily — 

Fearing  the  eyes  that  pierce, 
Fearing  the  Witch  Doctor, 

'Feti  the  fierce. 

Not  so  in  days  gone  by: 

He  was  the  healer  then, 
A  friend  to  the  ailing, 

Belov'd  of  the  children, 
Father  of  fatherless. 

And  the  hater  of  blood — 
'Feti,  the  kind  doctor, 

'Feti,  the  good. 

Sudden  the  silence  breaks, 
The  waken'd  lizards  fly, 

For,  gasping  with  terror, 
He  awakes  with  a  cry. 


298  The  Bastard 

Ha !    Have  the  spirits  gone 
Back  to  the  sombre  past 

Leaving  him  living  yet — 
Yet  to  this  last? 

Over  the  burning  sand, 

Into  the  flaming  white, 
Shaking  with  hoary  age, 

Blinking  before  the  light: 
Mutt'ring  with  trembling  lips, 

And  a  blot  on  the  day: 
'Feti,  the  Witch  Doctor, 

Shuffles  way. 


THE  BASTARD 

Neither  the  one  nor  the  other,  neither  the  White  nor  the 

Black, 
By  the  side  of  the  dusty  waggon  outspanned  on  the  highveld 

track. 
Alone  by  the  dung-fed  fire  where  the  sad-voiced  night-jars 

wheel 
Goliat  Witbooi,  the  half-caste,  partakes  of  his  evening  meal. 

Not  clear  is  the  path  of  the  black  man,  nor  easy  the  road  of 

the  white. 
But  the  trail  of  a  man  who  is  neither  is  wanting  all  glimmer 

of  light, 
The  man  who  is  both,  but  is  neither;   the  sport  of  a  sudden 

fire 
Of  a  woman  who  saw  not  the  meaning  and  a  man  who  was 

duU'd  by  desire. 

At  odds  with  God  in  his  heaven,  at  sixes  and  sevens  with 

man. 
The  colour  showing  beneath  the  white,  the  white  beneath 

the  tan. 


The  Bastard  299 

Despised  and  distrusted  by  White  and  by  Black;    wifeless, 

childless,  and  lone — 
Father,  how  could  you  have  done  it?    0  mother,  you  might 

have  known.  .  .  . 

Not  blind  to  the  aching  pity,  but  dumb  for  the  hot  excuse, 
He  would  hide  the  shame  of  his  being  in  a  passion  of  wild 

abuse 
From  those  whose  stare  is  an  insult,  from  those  who  will  slam 

the  door 
On  the  shame  that  is  his  and  yet  is  not,  for  the  wrong  of  the 

Two  Before. 

Embitter'd,  unlettered,  unloving;  homeless,  nameless,  for- 
lorn; 

Doomed  by  a  fact  that  he  cannot  mend — by  the  fact  that  he 
was  bom — 

Drinking  his  beaker  of  coffee,  and  eating  his  dole  of  bread, 

Well  might  he  pray  for  the  end  to  be  near  and  wish  that  he 
were  dead. 

But  no.    For  hope  is  still  present,  and  hope  is  a  father  to  all. 
And  the  long  road  stretches  to  northward — and  he  hears  the 

long  road  call — 
And  the  veld  is  a  kindly  mother,  the  bullocks  doze  at  the 

chain, 
Umfaan  will  return  by  morning,  and  he  will  trek  on  again. 

Yea,  good  is  the  road  to  the  northward,  and  good  is  the  light 

of  the  sun. 
And  good  is  a  pipe  in  the  evening  when  the  long  day's  trek  is 

done — 
When  the  bullocks  browse  in  the  valley  and  the  moon  comes 

over  the  kop. 
And  the  voorlooper  makes  the  cookies,  and  Witbooi  drinks 

his  dop; 

And  the  fire  lights  up  the  waggon,  and  the  smoke  goes  by  with 
the  breeze, 

And  he  dreams  of  the  good  north  hunting — old  camps  be- 
neath the  trees 


300      Song  of  the  Afrikander  Woman 

In  the  timber'd  low-veld  country  where  the  game  is  as  thick 

as  stock, 
With  never  a  White  man  to  scorn  him  and  never  a  Black  man 

to  mock. 

Yea,  good  is  the  road  to  the  northward  through  the  sun- 
warmed  winter  days 

When  the  fine  dust  blows  to  leeward  and  the  track  leads 
round  the  vleis, 

To  sit  on  the  fore-part  locker  and  to  drone  to  the  warm  spent 
wind 

The  chant  of  the  New  before  one,  and  the  dirge  of  the  Old, 
behind. 

Song  of  the  home  that  is  moving  past  kopje  and  valley  and 

plain — 
Song  of  the  very  simple  things:   the  sun  and  the  wind  and 

the  rain 
And  the  warm  brown  earth  beneath  one  and  the  sky  where 

the  vultures  soar — 
With  only  the  bad  behind  one  and  only  the  good  before. 

Neither  the  one  nor  the  other,  neither  the  White  nor  the  Black, 
By  the  side  of  the  dusty  waggon  outspann'd  on  the  highveld  track. 
Wrapped  in  a  coloured  blanket,  and  dreaming  of  his  desire 
Lies  Goliat  Witbooi,  the  half-caste,  asleep  before  the  fire. 


SONG  OF  THE  AFRIKANDER  WOMAN 

Why  do  you  stand  there  at  the  gate, 

Out  there  where  the  roadway  goes? 

Is  it  me  you  watch  under  the  rim  of  your  hat, 

Me  or  the  rose? 

There  you  stand  by  your  cart, 

And  you  look  at  the  rose,  not  me, 

For  I  am  very  old. 

But  the  bloom  of  the  rose  is  the  light  of  my  eyes, 

And  the  root  of  the  rose  my  heart. 


Song  of  the  Afrikander  Woman    301 

Here  died  he  by  the  threshold 

(Piet,  Pietj  how  young  were  we !) 

But  they  drank  his  blood  with  their  assegais 

And  left  the  home  so  cold — 

And  desolate  unto  me.  .  .  . 

The  homestead  and  the  land 
Left  desolate  unto  me, 
But  his  blood  broke  out  in  the  sand 
In  this  rose  that  never  dies; 
This  rose  in  the  burning  sand. 

The  dew  on  the  leaves  of  the  rose? 
They  are  tears  that  never  dry; 
The  thorns  on  the  stem  of  the  rose  ? 
They  are  hate  that  waits  that  hand — 
The  hand  that  slew  my  man, — 
God  shall  not  pass  it  by ! 
Nothing  shall  hinder,  nothing  let ! 
God  knows  the  road  by  which  he  goes. 
And  God  shall  not  forget ! 


'O^ 


God  shall  remember  yet 

The  tears  that  never  dry, 

And  the  hundred  men  to  one 

That  knew  the  way  to  die.  .  .  . 

I  talk  and  I  talk  out  here  in  the  sun, 

Where  the  dusty  roadway  goes. 

With  the  stranger  there  with  his  cart, 

Who  stops  to  see  the  rose — 

I,  who  have  seen  the  assegais  .  .  . 

While  the  red  rose  burns  with  the  light  of  my  eyes, 

And  the  rose  roots  grope  in  my  heart. 

Why  do  you  stand  there  at  the  gate. 

Out  there  where  the  roadway  goes  ? 

Is  it  me  you  watch  under  the  rim  of  your  hat? 

Not  so,  but  the  rose. 


302  Fear 

FEAR 


Deep-bosomed  nighty  and  all-pervading  dark, 
Long  distances  immeasurably  lone, 
Still  waters  glancing  starlight,  and  the  stone 
White  face  of  mountains  blindly  to  the  blue 
Up-yearning  grimly  ...  as  the  valleys  hark. 
Fear-centred,  mighty-shadow' d,  drear  and  deep 
Between  the  timber'd  ranges,  where  they  keep 
The  comers  of  the  grass-fiats,  wet  with  dew. 

II 

No  sleep  for  you,  dark  ranges,  nor  for  me; 

No  rest,  0  valleys,  for  your  teeming  heart; 

From  out  tumultuous  dreamings  do  we  start 

Fear-gasping  to  the  coldness  of  the  night; 

(We  are  as  one) — waiting  for  what  Will  Be  .  .  . 

We  are  as  one  in  terror;  while  the  bright 

White  stars  stare  mocking,  though  they  cannot  light 

The  vast  unknowledge  of  Eternity. 

Ill 

Wet  waiting  plains  that  are  but  half-awake 
(Asleep  with  weariness,  awake  with  fear). 
The  weight  of  thousands  on  your  breast  you  bear. 
Fear-haunted,  silent  thousands,  dumb  and  shy, 
Soft-footed,  stealing  under  bush  and  brake, 
Wide-nostrill'd,  nervous,  staring  in  the  gloom 
Where  food  and  life  await  them,  or  where  loom 
The  yellow  muzzles  by  the  which  they  die; 

IV 

(The  crouching  muscle  blended  with  the  shades, 

Intangible  and  terrible,  alive. 

And  irresistible  .  .  .).     Brown  plains,  you  strive 

To  keep  your  horror  hidden,  as  I  do; 

Your  night-dews  wash  the  blood  drops  from  the  blades 

Of  broken  grass  imperfectly;  the  stains 

Are  there;  the  fear,  though  hidden,  yet  remains. 

Yea,  though  we  laugh,  we  are  the  same,  we  two. 


Fear  303 


Through  outer  emptiness  the  planets  roll 
Weaving  a  threadless  pattern  in  the  skies — 
That  cloth  of  measureless  infinities, 
Whose  utter  hugeness  baffles  all  desire 
To  probe  beyond  sight's  limit,  though  the  soul 
Should  soar  beyond  the  systems  to  a  shore 
Where  neither  fear  nor  sorrow  evermore 
Shall  rob  the  spirit  of  its  glorious  fire. 

VI 

Beyond  all  comprehension  swing  the  suns, 
(Mere  needle-points  by  distance) — but  the  tale 
Renews  its  dull  monotony:  we  wail 
"  Ah  God,  ah  God,  show  us  what  Will  Befall! 
The  darkness  and  the  mystery  that  stuns, 
Cold-handed,  holds  us  terror-bound;  we  writhe 
At  moments,  horror-conquer'd — rise  and  strive, 
Sob-choked,  to  curse  the  riddle  of  it  all !  " 

VII 

Happy  is  he  who  fears  but  Death  alone; 

His  path  is  plain  with  power,  for  he  goes 

Guarded  and  carefully  by  ways  he  knows. 

With  certain  footsteps — easy  to  be  brave ! 

But  there  are  others  who  may  not  atone — 

Nor  find  fulfilment,  peace,  nor  any  hope. 

But  only  further  terror,  by  the  slope 

That  drags  dumb  tongues  beyond  the  restless  grave. 

VIII 

Cold  whispering  night;  and  shrouding  velvet  dark; 

Great  distances  unmeasured  and  alone; 

Deep  waters,  splash'd  with  starlight;  and  the  stone 

Grey  face  of  krantzes  staring  at  the  blue 

In  half  derision  .  .  .  while  the  valleys  hark 

Awe-silenced,  soaked  in  shadows,  where  they  keep 

Ill-hid  the  ranges'  horror;  whiles  they  weep 

Dank  hill-streams  to  the  grass'd  plains,  wet  with  dew. 


304  The  Veldt 

IX 

Th'  umsasas  trace  a  network  on  the  sky, 
The  cold  stars  glitter  in  the  icy  air 
From  out  unclouded  deepness;  and  the  drear 
Hyena  howls  his  load  of  savage  shame 
To  th'  uncaring  wilderness; — while  I, 
Sitting  upon  my  blankets  by  the  fire, 
Rake,  like  the  ashes  of  my  lost  desire. 
The  dying  embers  of  the  perish'd  flame, 

KiNGSLEY  FaIRBRIDGE. 


THE  VELDT 

Cast  the  window  wider,  sonny, 

Let  me  see  the  veldt. 
Rolling  grandly  to  the  sunset, 

Where  the  mountains  melt. 
With  the  sharp  horizon  round  it, 

Like  a  silver  belt. 

Years  and  years  I've  trekked  across  it, 

Ridden  back  and  fore. 
Till  the  silence  and  the  glamour 

Ruled  me  to  the  core; 
No  man  ever  knew  it  better, 

None  could  love  it  more. 

There's  a  balm  for  crippled  spirits 

In  the  open  view, 
Running  from  your  very  footsteps 

Out  into  the  blue; 
Like  a  waggon-track  to  heaven. 

Straight  'twixt  God  and  you. 

There's  a  magic,  soul-compelling. 

In  the  boundless  space. 
And  it  grows  upon  you,  sonny. 

Like  a  woman's  face — 
Passionate  and  pale  and  tender, 

With  a  marble  grace. 


The  Veldt  305 

There's  the  sum  of  all  religion 

In  its  mightiness; 
Winged  truths,  beyond  your  doubting. 

Close  about  you  press. 
God  is  greater  in  the  open — 

Little  man  is  less. 

There's  a  voice  pervades  its  stillness. 

Wonderful  and  clear; 
Tongues  of  prophets  and  of  angels, 

Whispering  far  and  near, 
Speak  an  everlasting  gospel 

To  the  spirit's  ear. 

There's  a  sense  you  gather,  sonny, 

In  the  open  air ; 
Shift  your  burden  ere  it  breaks  you: 

God  will  take  His  share. 
Keep  your  end  up  for  your  own  sake; 

All  the  rest's  His  care. 

There's  a  promise,  if  you  need  it. 

In  the  time  to  come; 
All  the  veldt  is  loud  and  vocal 

Where  the  Bible's  dumb. 
Heaven  is  paved  with  gold  for  parsons, 

But  it's  grassed  for  some. 

There's  a  spot  I  know  of,  sonny. 

Yonder  by  the  stream ; 
Bushes  handy  for  the  fire, 

Water  for  the  team. 
By  the  old  home  outspan,  sonny, 

Let  me  lie  and  dream. 

Perceval  Gibbon. 


3o6         The  Cemetery  of  the  Veld 

THE  CEMETERY  OF  THE  VELD  ^ 

THE'"slender  shaft,  memorial  of  their  grief, 
Time's  swift  forgetfulness  defies  and  braves, 

Pointing  to  Heaven  from  the  lonely  hill 
Above  the  crowding  graves. 

•  •  •  •  * 

Here,  while  the  man  fought  out  the  bitter  fight. 
The  woman  in  rebellious  wrath  immured. 

Bore  for  his  sake  the  immemorial  pain, 
The  primal  curse  endured. 

,  •  •  •  • 

Here  she  saw  die  children  she  could  not  save, 

Clutched  hard-won  infants  to  her  throbbing  breast, 

Sternly  relentless,  ignorant,  and  brave — 
Leave  to  her  God  the  rest. 

,  •  •  •  " 

And  here  that  God  who  judges  desperate  hearts. 
And  pardons  all  because  He  understands. 

Weighed  up  the  anguish  in  unfaltering  scales, 
And  stretched  forth  pitying  hands. 

,  .  .  .  • 

"  Be  steadfast,"  there  the  firm  words  glow  and  shine. 
Beyond  man's  little  round  of  cruel  strife 

So  much  remains  those  bitter  hours  have  won 
That  passes  not  with  life. 

•  •  •  •  • 

Love,  the  divine  inheritance  of  man, 

The  dauntless  angel  with  the  brooding  wings, 

Who,  undismayed,  disputes  the  narrow  way, 
With  Azrael,  King  of  Kings. 

•  •  •  •  • 

Love,  who  points  onward — even  with  a  sword, 
Destroying  evil  where  his  feet  have  trod. 

Has  done  his  work  and  left  his  high  reward, 
Ambassador  of  God. 

Beatrice    Allhusen. 

»  Written  in  reference  to  an  article  in  The  Cape  on  the  "  Concentration 
Camp." 


Picket  307 


THE  KAPJI  BLUE 

Beside  the  glancing,  dancing  Vaal 
A  maiden  walks  divinely  tall; 
Her  tresses  hid  in  Kapji  blue, 
She  waits,  she  waits,  her  lover  true. 

Oh,  lover  true,  oh,  lover  true. 

Concealed  within  the  Kapji  blue. 

Red  lips  await  thy  lover's  kiss: 

Come,  come,  and  claim  love's  hour  of  bliss! 

Beside  the  grey  and  sullen  Vaal 

A  maiden  walks ;  ah !  sad  tears  fall. 

She  whispers  from  the  Kapji  blue: 

"  Thy  duty  calls,  I  will  be  true!  " 
Oh,  lover  true,  oh,  lover  true, 
Tears  fall  beneath  the  Kapji  blue; 
One  lingering  kiss  from  white  lips  take. 
And  then  farewell,  for  duty's  sake. 

Beside  the  rushing,  swollen  Vaal 

A  heart  is  broken.     "  That  is  all." 

A  maiden  walks,  low-bowed  her  head; 

On  field  of  blood  her  love  lies  "  dead." 
Oh,  lover  true,  oh,  lover  true. 
No  more  she  wears  the  Kapji  blue! 
Oh,  lover  true,  oh,  lover  brave. 
The  veld  wind  moans  across  thy  grave. 

H.   WooDHOusE  Neale. 


PICKET 

Straining  me  eyes  in  the  darkness, 

Gazing  away  into  ink. 
Busting  me  ears  for  the  things  that  I  hears. 

And  thinking  the  things  that  I  think. 
Looking  at  nothing  come  closer. 

Watching  that  nothing  draw  near. 
Seeing  them  plain  through  the  mist  and  the  rain, 

Then  finding  there's  nothing  to  fear. 


308  My  Love  Karin 

Picket,  oh,  beautiful  picket, 

Oh,  skylines  at  night  in  the  cold, 
Oh,  sweet  little  hills  with  yer  mist  and  yer  chills, 

And  your  deaths  that  never  have  been  told. 
Picket,  oh,  beautiful  picket. 

Oh,  bridles  that  clink  in  the  dark. 
Oh,  me  and  oh,  you,  an'  the  fears  that  we  knew, 

Jest  me  and  jest  you  in  the  dark. 

Picket,  poor  devil  on  picket. 

With  yer  bayonet  atop  of  yer  gun; 
How  naked  you  seemed,  when  you  watched  and  you  dreamed. 

And  thought  of  things  that  you  done. 
Jest  counted  them  all  on  the  kopje. 

And  thought  of  them,  oh,  and  the  shame; 
Jest  counted  them  all  from  the  first  to  the  fall, 

Calling  her  name. 

Straining  me  eyes  in  the  darkness. 

Seeing  her  face  in  the  ink, 
Busting  me  ears  for  the  things  that  I  fears, 

And  thinking  the  thing  that  I  think. 
Waiting  for  love  in  the  clover. 

And  watching  for  death  in  the  dark. 
Oh,  poor  little  sod,  with  m'  love  and  m'  God, 

Jest  praying  alone  in  the  dark. 

"  MOME." 


MY  LOVE  KARIN 

My  love  Karin's  little  hand. 
By  God's  loving  wonder  plann'd 
Holds  about  my  finger  light, 
As  it  were  a  jewel  bright. 

My  love  Karin's  sunny  eyes. 
How  they  open  in  surprise 
When  her  little  red  balloon 
Soars  above  her  like  a  moon  1 


Katrina  309 

My  love  Karin's  lovely  face — 
God's  own  smile  is  in  that  place — 
Beams  ecstatic  when  she  sees 
Branches  bowing  in  the  breeze. 

My  love  Karin's  coral  lips 
Can  reveal  two  ivory  tips — 
God,  what  beauty  cans't  thou  make 
When  Thou  love  and  life  dost  wake ! 

My  love  Karin's  silver  voice 
Makes  her  mother's  mind  rejoice — 
God,  what  music  there  can  be 
In  her  ringing  laugh  of  glee ! 

My  love  Karin,  nine  months  old — 
Half  the  wonder  is  untold! 
God  made  man,  hut  did  He  know 
All  the  joy  He  did  bestow? 

Hugh  J.  Evans. 


KATRINA 

From  beneath  her  cotton  "  Kappie  " 
Bright  grey  eyes  demurely  shining; 

Even-tempered,  plump,  and  happy, 
Never  groaning  or  repining — 
Ach,  Katrina ! 

Just  one  flaxen  curl  escaping 
From  the  primly  fastened  setting: 

One  of  nature's  make  and  shaping 
Yet  a  curl  there's  no  forgetting — 
Ach,  Katrina ! 

And  such  merry  joyous  laughter. 
Rippling  on  with  lilts  and  catches, 

Charming  once,  and  ever  after; 
And  a  voice  that — well  it  matches ! 
Ach,  Katrina! 


310  "  Lala,  'Sana  Lwam  !  " 

When  T  offer  her  a  posy 

She  regards  me,  half  beguiling, 

With  a  cheek  becoming  rosy — 
Looks  provoking,  coyly  smiling. 
Ach,  Katrina! 

"  Dat  is  mooi;  ja  dat  is  prachtig! 

Foei !  your  heart  is  torn  with  sorrow. 
Sis  toch !  malkop !  (allemachtig !) 
Dag,  Mynheer — until  to-morrow." 
Ach,  Katrina. 

"  Sneyd." 

"LALA,  'SANA  LWAMl"i 
{Kaffir  Lullaby  Song) 
The  hoeing  of  day  is  done, 
The  weary  heat  of  the  sun, 
The  wood  is  gathered,  the  water  drawn, 
And  now  we  can  rest  till  the  coming  of  dawn ; 
Till  the  coming  of  dawn,  my  babe, 
Lala,  lala,  'mtwana  wam; 
Lala,  'sana  lwam ! 

0  soothing  season  of  night! 

Bringing  a  respite  sweet 

To  aching  hands  and  weary  feet, 

From  the  burden  of  toil 

And  the  sting  of  the  heat: 

0  soothing  season  of  night ! 

Lala,  lala,  'mtwana  wam ; 

Lala,  'sana  lwam ! 

Calm  and  fair  is  the  night. 
The  moon  shines  over  the  hill, 
Flooding  with  magical  light 
Forest  and  field  and  rill. 
All  is  peaceful  and  still, 
Save  the  hungry  jackal's  howl. 
Calm  and  fair  is  the  night. 
The  moon  shines  over  the  hill. 

Lala,  lala,  'mtwana  wam; 

Lala,  'sana  lwam, 
•  Sleep,  sleep,  my  child,  sleep,  my  babe. 


In  the  Matoppos  31 1 


IN  THE  MATOPPOS 

In  lone  Matoppos  now  he  lies, 

Can  we  forget? 
Our  leader,  seer;  his  hills,  his  skies. 

Are  near  him  yet ! 

Like  to  the  Hebrew  seer  of  old, 

Who,  within  sight 
Of  promised  Canaan,  passed  away 

On  Nebo's  height — 

So  he:  he  only  saw  the  dawn 

Of  promised  day 
Break  o'er  the  hills  of  his  lov'd  land: 

He  might  not  stay 

To  see  the  splendour  of  that  noon, 

For  which  he  wrought 
Thro'  the  long,  weary,  waiting  years 

With  anxious  thought. 

Strange  to  our  purblind  eyes  the  tools 

Which,  with  due  care. 
The  great  inventor  takes  to  build 

His  kingdom  here. 

He  sought  to  further  the  strong  sway 

Of  Britain's  isle. 
But  all  unconsciously  for  God 

He  wrought  the  while. 

In  lone  Matoppos  now  he  lies, 

Our  leader,  seer; 
His  hills,  his  woods,  his  streams,  his  skies 

Are  ever  near ! 

F.  C.  Slater. 


312  The  Digger's  Song 


THE  DIGGER'S  SONG 

Oh,  mates,  the  veldt  is  brown  and  bare, 
And  drought  is  on  the  land; 
But  beneath  lie  the  glittering  veins  of  gold. 
Like  the  cords  in  this  broad  brown  hand. 

Then  dig  for  the  glittering  gold ! 

Dig  for  the  wealth  untold ! 

Dig  with  a  fire  that  can  never  tire, 

Down,  down  to  the  glittering  gold. 

Oh,  mates,  we  left  some  living  friends 

Away  across  the  sea; 

But  my  sweetheart  here,  in  the  brown  earth's  breast, 

Is  dearer  far  to  me. 

Then  hurrah  for  the  glittering  gold ! 

Hurrah  for  the  wealth  untold ! 

We'll  win  it,  we'll  spend  it,  we'll  drink  it,  we'll  lend  it, 

We'll  live  for  the  glittering  gold ! 

My  sweetheart's  hair  is  yellow,  bright 
As  the  sun  in  yonder  sky; 
But  shy  my  sweetheart  is,  and  dark 
The  place  where  she  does  lie. 

Then  drink  to  the  glittering  gold ! 

Drink  to  the  wealth  untold ! 

Drink  deep  and  long,  with  laughter  and  song. 

Drink,  drink  to  the  glittering  gold ! 

My  sweetheart's  bright  as  the  rising  sun, 
And  cold  as  the  waning  moon; 
And  hard  as  the  stones  in  the  watercourse 
'Neath  the  dust  and  glare  of  noon. 

Then  a  health  to  the  glittering  gold ! 

A  health  to  the  wealth  untold ! 

A  health,  my  lads,  to  the  fairest  of  maids, 

A  health  to  the  glittering  gold  1 

Amy  Sutherland. 


Shadow  313 


SHADOW 

The  shadowy  mist  rolls  sadly 

Down  o'er  the  mountain's  breast; 
The  shivering  foam  springs  madly, 

Torn  from  the  billow's  crest: 
Low  on  my  eyes  is  creeping 

The  gathering  cloud  of  tears; 
High  at  my  feet  is  leaping 

The  breaking  tide  of  years. 

The  spray  and  the  vapour  mingle; 

I  hear  the  sea-bird's  cry, 
Hoarse  in  the  grating  shingle, 

Shrill  in  the  wild  wind's  sigh: 
My  fugitive  spirit  flutters, 

Borne  on  the  wa>nvard  breeze. 
And  deep  is  the  moan  it  utters 

As  the  murmur  of  the  seas. 

The  light  of  heaven  is  failing, 

The  smile  of  earth  has  gone; 
To  laughter  follows  wailing. 

And  the  sable  veil  is  drawn : 
The  joys  of  time  are  shrouded 

And  buried  one  by  one; 
The  sun  of  life  is  clouded 

Ere  yet  the  race  is  run. 

I  list  to  the  sough  and  sobbing, 

I  think  of  the  vanished  scene; 
I  feel  my  pulses  throbbing 

With  pleasures  that  have  been: 
For  love  then  fans  the  embers 

And  ashes  of  regret, 
And  still  with  pain  remembers 

What  sorrow  would  forget. 

The  wreathing  mist  now  covers 
The  winding  mountain's  side; 


314  The  Pace  of  the  Ox 

The  scattered  spume  now  hovers 

High  o'er  the  flowing  tide: 
I  am  whelmed  in  the  rain  and  plashing, 

Blinded  with  chilling  tears, 
'Mid  floods  of  memory  dashing. 
And  the  broken  surf  of  years. 

Henry  Martyn  Foot, 
January  1874. 


THE  PACE  OF  THE  OX 

What  do  we  know — and  what  do  we  care — for  Time  and  his 

silver  scythe. 
Since  there  is  always  time  to  spare,  so  long  as  a  man's  alive? — 
The  world  may  come,  and  the  world  may  go,  and  the  world 

may  whistle  by. 
But  the  pace  of  the  ox  is  steady  and  slow,  and  life  is  a  lullaby. 

What  do  we  know  of  the  city's  scorn,  the  hum  of  a  world 
amaze, 

Hot-foot  haste,  and  the  fevered  dawn,  and  forgotten  yester- 
days ? — 

For  men  may  strain,  and  women  may  strive,  in  busier  lands 
to-day, 

But  the  pace  of  the  ox  is  the  pace  to  thrive  in  the  land  of 
Veldt  and  Vlei. 

The  daylight  breaks  in  the  Eastern  sky,  and  sinks  to  sleep  in 

the  West; 
Thus  it  is  that  our  days  go  by,  bringing  their  meed  of  rest. 
The  Future's  hidden  behind  the  veil,  and  the  Past  is  still  the 

Past, 
And  the  pace  of  the  ox  is  the  sliding  scale  that  measures  our 

work  at  last. 

The  song  of  the  ships  is  far  to  hear,  the  hum  of  the  world  is 

dead, 
And  lotus  life  in  a  drowsy  year  our  benison  instead — 
Why  should  we  push  the  world  along,  live  in  a  world  of  flame, 
When  the  pace  of  the  ox  is  steady  and  strong,  and  the  end  is 

just  the  same  ? 

CULLEN  GOULDSBURY. 


EAST  AND  WEST  INDIES  AND 
CEYLON 


EAST  AND  WEST  INDIES  AND 
CEYLON 

ON  THE  ABOLITION  OF  SUTTEE  i 

Red  from  his  chambers  came  the  morning  sun 

And  frowned,  dark  Ganges,  on  thy  fatal  shore, 
Journeying  on  high;  but  when  the  day  was  done 

He  set  in  smiles,  to  rise  in  blood  no  more. 
Hark !  heard  ye  not  ?  The  widow's  wail  is  over, 

No  more  the  flames  from  impious  pyres  ascend, 
See  Mercy,  now  primeval  peace  restore. 

While  pagans  glad  the  arch  ethereal  rend, 
For  India  hails  at  last  her  father  and  her  friend. 

Back  to  its  cavern  ebbs  the  tide  of  crime, 

There  fettered,  locked,  and  powerless  it  sleeps; 
And  History,  bending  o'er  the  page  of  time. 

Where  many  a  mournful  record  still  she  keeps, 
The  widowed  Hindoo's  fate  no  longer  weeps; 

The  priestly  tyrants'  cruel  charm  is  broken. 
And  to  his  den  alarmed  the  monster  creeps; 

The  charm  that  mars  his  mystic  spell  is  broken. 
O'er  all  the  land  'tis  spread  he  trembles  at  the  token. 

Bentinck,  be  thine  the  everlasting  meed ! 

The  heart's  full  homage  still  is  virtue's  claim, 
And  'tis  the  good  man's  ever  honoured  deed 

Which  gives  an  immortality  to  fame: 
Transient  and  fierce,  though  dazzling  is  the  flame 

That  glory  lights  upon  the  wastes  of  war: 
Nature  unborn  shall  venerate  thy  name, 

A  triumph  than  the  conqueror's  greater  far, 
Thy  memory  shall  be  blessed  as  is  the  morning  star. 
1  Suttee  declared  illegal  in  1829. 


3i8  On  the  Abolition  of  Suttee 

He  is  the  friend  of  man  who  breaks  the  seal, 

The  despot  custom  sets  in  deed  and  thought. 
He  labours  generously  for  human  weal 

Who  holds  the  omnipotence  of  fear  as  nought; 
The  winged  mind  will  not  to  earth  be  brought, 

'Twill  sink  to  clay  if  it  imprisoned  be; 
For  'tis  with  high  immortal  longings  fraught; 

And  these  are  dimmed  or  quenched  eternally, 
Until  it  feels  the  hand  that  sets  its  pinions  free. 

And  woman  hath  endured,  and  still  endures 

Wrong,  which  her  weakness,  and  her  woes  should 
shield. 
The  slave  and  victim  of  the  treacherous  lures 

Which  wily  arts,  to  man  the  tyrant,  yield. 
And  how  the  sight  of  star,  or  flower,  or  field, 

Or  bird  that  journeys  through  the  sunny  air. 
Or  social  bliss,  from  woman  has  been  sealed. 

To  her,  the  sky  is  dark,  the  earth  is  bare. 
And  Heaven's  most  hallowed  breath  pronounced  for- 
bidden fare. 

Nurtured  in  darkness,  bom  to  many  woes. 

Words,  the  mind's  instrument  but  ill  supplied. 
Delight,  even  as  a  name  she  scarcely  knows. 

And  while  an  infant  sold  to  be  a  bride, 
To  be  a  mother,  her  exalted  pride; 

And  yet  not  hers  a  mother's  sigh  or  smile, 
Oft  doomed  in  youth  to  stem  the  icy  tide 

Of  rude  neglect,  caused  by  some  wanton's  wile, 
And  forced  at  last  to  grace  her  lord's  funeral  pile. 

Daughters  of  Europe !  by  our  Ganges  side 

Which  wept  and  murmured  as  it  flowed  along. 
Have  wives,  yet  virgins,  nay  yet  infants  died. 

While  priestly  fiends  have  yelled  a  dismal  song 
'Mid  deafening  clamours,  of  the  drum  and  gong: 

And  mothers  on  their  pyres  have  seen  the  hands, 
Which  clung  around  them  when  those  hands  were  young, 

Lighting  around  them  such  unholy  brands 
As  demons  kindle  when  they  rave  through  hell  in  bands: 


Cawnpore  319 

But  with  prophetic  ken,  dispelling  fears 

Which  haunt  the  mind  that  dwells  on  Nature's  plan, 
The  Bard  beholds  through  mists  of  coming  years 

A  rising  spirit  speaking  peace  to  man, 
The  storm  is  passing,  and  the  Rainbow's  span 

Stretcheth  from  North  to  South:   the  ebon  car 
Of  darkness  rolls  away ;  the  breezes  fan 

The  infant  dawn,  and  morning's  herald  star 
Comes  trembling  into  day:  0 !  can  the  Sun  be  far? 

Henry  Louis  Vivian  Derozio. 


CAWNPORE 

{In  MeiTwriam,  July  11,  1857 — 1901) 

Linger  and  muse  awhile,  for  little  change  is  here; 

This  is  the  place,  the  vale  of  death,  the  haunt  of  shame  and 

fear; 
Linger  and  muse  and  mark  the  gleaming  river  pass, 
The  brazen  sky,  the  shimmering  air,  the  tall  white-tufted 

grass. 

This  is  the  place  of  doom,  where  darkest  shades  are  near, 
Where  deepest  grief  is  mute  and  still,  and  wrath  can  shed  no 

tear; 
Haggard  and  worn  and  wan,  in  garments  ghastly  red, 
The  phantom  shapes  flit  to  and  fro,  the  spirits  of  our  dead  1 

Hunger  and  pain  and  thirst,  and  fever's  burning  breath 
Long  since  had  slain  all  hopes  of  aid,  save  hope  of  kindly 

death ; 
See  in  yon  grisly  den,  with  anguish  pale  and  wild, 
Waiting  for  death,  their  only  friend.  Mother  and  Maid  and 

Child! 

Ah,  bitter  was  their  cup,  and  ah,  the  fatal  day. 

When  one  fierce  fiend  in  human  shape  o'er  life  and  death  held 

sway  1 
Horror  beheld  aghast,  and  Murder  veiled  her  eyes, 
When  men  went  forth,  if  men  they  were,  to  work  such 

butcheries. 


320  The  Hindu  Ascetic 

There  is  the  place  of  death,  unchanged  by  fifty  years, 

And  still  we  wet  the  nameless  grave  with  bitter,  blinding 

tears ; 
Though  graves  like  grass  decay,  and  Time  must  change  the 

spot. 
Full  many  a  fifty  year  shall  pass  ere  these  shall  be  forgot. 

Now  peace  be  on  the  dead,  thrice  peace  beneath  the  sod, 
Unknown  to  us  who  weep  their  fate,  how  surely  known  to 

God! 
Low  in  your  grave  lie  still !  Saith  not  the  Lord  of  Hosts, 
"  Vengeance  is  mine,  I  will  repay  "  ?    Lie  still,  ye  piteous 

ghosts ! 

Low  in  your  grave  lie  still,  ye  hapless  tortured  souls. 

Till  the  new  Dawn  shall  rise  to  light  the  darkness  of  the 

poles, 
Justice  and  Truth  on  earth,  with  Mercy  shall  prevail. 
And  the  great  trump  in  glorious  might  the  Lord  of  Hosts  shall 

hail 

C.  W.  Waddington. 


THE  HINDU  ASCETIC 

Here  as  I  sit  by  the  Jumna  bank, 

Watching  the  flow  of  the  sacred  stream, 

Pass  me  the  legions,  rank  on  rank. 
And  the  cannons  roar,  and  the  bayonets  gleam. 

Is  it  a  God  or  a  King  that  comes? 

Both  are  evil,  and  both  are  strong; 
With  women  and  worshipping,  dancing  and  drums; 

Carry  your  Gods  and  your  Kings  along. 

Fanciful  shapes  of  a  plastic  earth. 

These  are  the  visions  that  weary  the  eye; 

These  I  may  'scape  by  a  luckier  birth, 
Musing,  and  fasting,  and  hoping  to  die. 


Suttee 


321 


When  shall  these  phantoms  flicker  away? 

Like  the  smoke  of  the  gun  on  the  wind-swept  hill, 
Like  the  sounds  and  colours  of  yesterday: 

And  the  soul  have  rest  and  the  air  be  still. 

Sir  Alfred  Comyn  Lyall. 


THE  PURDAH  NASHINi 

Her  life  is  a  revolving  dream 
Of  languid  and  sequestered  ease; 

Her  girdles  and  her  fillets  gleam 
Like  changing  fires  on  sunset  seas; 

Her  raiment  is  like  morning  mist, 

Shot  opal,  gold,  and  amethyst. 

From  thieving  light  of  eyes  impure, 
From  coveting  sun  or  wind's  caress. 

Her  days  are  guarded  and  secure 
Behind  her  carven  lattices, 

Like  jewels  in  a  turbaned  crest. 

Like  secrets  in  a  lover's  breast. 

But  though  no  hand  unsanctioned  dares 
Unveil  the  mysteries  of  her  grace. 

Time  lifts  the  curtain  unawares. 
And  sorrow  looks  into  her  face — 

Who  shall  prevent  the  subtle  years, 

Or  shield  a  woman's  eyes  from  tears? 


SUTTEE 

Lamp  of  my  life,  the  lips  of  Death 
Have  blown  thee  out  with  their  sudden  breath; 
Naught  shall  revive  thy  vanished  spark — 
Love,  must  I  dwell  in  the  living  dark? 

Tree  of  my  life,  Death's  cruel  foot 
Hath  crushed  thee  down  to  thy  hidden  root; 
Naught  shall  restore  thy  glory  fled — 
Shall  the  blossom  live  when  the  tree  is  dead? 
'  Purda  women,  or  women  of  the  curtain. 


322  The  Indian  Gipsy 

Life  of  my  life,  Death's  bitter  sword 
Hath  severed  us  like  a  broken  word, 
Rent  us  in  twain  who  are  but  one — 
Shall  the  flesh  survive  when  the  soul  is  gone? 


NIGHTFALL  IN  THE  CITY  OF  HYDERABAD. 

See  how  the  speckled  sky  burns  like  a  pigeon's  throat, 
Jewelled  with  embers  of  opal  and  peridote. 

See  the  white  river  that  flashes  and  scintillates, 
Curved  like  a  tusk  from  the  mouth  of  the  city-gates. 

Hark,  from  the  minaret  how  the  muezzin's  call 
Floats  like  a  battle-flag  over  the  city  wall. 

From  trellised  balconies  languid  and  luminous 
Faces  gleam,  veiled  in  a  splendour  voluminous. 

Leisurely  elephants  wind  through  the  winding  lanes. 
Swinging  their  silver  bells  hung  from  their  silver  chains. 

Round  the  high  Char  Minar  sounds  of  gay  cavalcades 
Blend  with  the  music  of  cymbals  and  serenades. 

Over  the  city  bridge  Night  comes  majestical, 
Borne  like  a  queen  to  a  sumptuous  festival. 


THE  INDIAN  GIPSY 

In  tattered  robes  that  hoard  a  glittering  trace 
Of  bygone  colours,  broidered  to  the  knee, 
Behold  her,  daughter  of  a  wandering  race. 
Tameless,  with  the  bold  falcon's  agile  grace, 
And  the  lithe  tiger's  sinuous  majesty. 


Song  of  Ind  323 

With  frugal  skill  her  simple  wants  she  tends, 
She  folds  her  tawny  heifers  and  her  sheep 
On  lonely  meadows  when  the  daylight  ends, 
Ere  the  quiet  night  upon  her  flock  descends 
Like  a  black  panther  from  the  caves  of  sleep. 

Time's  river  winds  in  foaming  centuries 

Its  changing;  swift,  irrevocable  course 

To  far  off  and  incalculable  seas; 

She  is  twin-born  with  primal  mysteries. 

And  drinks  of  life  at  Time's  forgotten  source. 

Sarojini  Naidu. 

GOOD  AND  BAD  THOUGHTS 

{From  the  Dhammapada) 

Our  natures  all  proceed  from  thoughts 
In  thought  they  lie,  all  thoughts  they  are; 
If  with  a  thought  with  evil  fraught 
Or  words  or  deeds  one  doth  unbar, 
Then  one  by  pain  is  chased  and  sought, 
As  is  the  best  by  wheel  or  car. 

Our  natures  all  proceed  from  thought, 
In  thought  they  lie,  all  thought  they  are; 
If  with  a  thought  with  goodness  fraught 
Or  words  or  deeds  one  doth  unbar, 
Then  one  by  bliss  is  chased  and  sought, 
As  by  one  shadow  going  far. 


SONG  OF  IND 

(From  Roby  Tagore) 

0  CHARMER  of  the  whole  world's  round, 
O  land  of  brightest  sunshine,  Ind, 
My  parents'  parent  thou ! 

Thy  feet  are  washed  by  azure  seas. 
Thy  green  hem  trembles  on  the  breeze. 
Thy  sun-kist  front  the  snow  mount  is, 
White  frost  doth  crown  thy  brow. 


324 


On  Tibet 

The  earliest  dawn  was  on  thy  dome, 
Psahns  eadiest  from  thy  woods  did  come, 
Spread  earliest  on  thy  sylvan  home 
Knowledge  and  truth  enow. 

0  blest,  thou  ever  hallow'd  land, 
That  feedest  many  a  foreign  strand, 
Flowest  into  Gangee,  Jumna  bland, 
Pure  nectar-bosomed  thou ! 


ON  TIBET 

Deep  in  the  bosom  dark  of  Mystery, 
Housed  in  the  gleam  of  days  that  are  no  more, 
And  dreams  that  like  her  Himalayas  soar 
To  height  incredible — methinks  I  see 
The  land  of  mystic  faith  and  Llamas  hoar  1 

A  glamour  through  the  creeping  sunset  steals, 
Weird  Tibet,  o'er  thy  snow-encircled  brow; 
A  glamour  from  the  Occident,  that  now 
Silent  pursues  thy  gloom  engirdled  heels. 
Mother  of  fossil  modes  and  customs  thou ! 

Thou  mighty  miracle  of  centuries 
To  us,  the  dwellers  in  the  setting  sun, 
Perpetual  dream-land,  child  of  sunrise  dun. 
Who  "  tearest  out  of  thought  "  man's  memories, 
Grim  in  thy  glory,  till  thy  race  be  run  I 

Land  of  the  faith  by  pensive  Bhudda  rear'd, — 
Where  thought  is  stable,  prayers  are  roll'd  by  wheels. 
Faith  moves  with  a  dull  motion  as  she  feels 
Her  way  thro'  gloom  of  births — where  Fate  is  feared, 
God  is  unknown,  and  man  in  darkness  reels ! 

RoBY  Datta. 


Song  of  Kalindl  325 


SONG  OF  KALINDI 1 

The  Hindus  divide  the  year  into  two  seasons,  placing  the  dewy  season 
between  winter  and  spring,  and  the  rains  between  summer  and 
winter. 

The  fresh  wind  blows  from  Northern  snows; 

The  nights  are  dark  with  dew; 
A  mound  of  fire  the  Simal  ^  glows; 

The  young  rice  shoots  anew; 
In  mornings  cool  from  reedy  pool 

Up  springs  the  whistling  crane; 
The  wild  fowl  fly  through  sunset  sky; 

The  sweet  juice  fills  the  cane. 
Come,  Krishna !  ^  from  the  tyrant  proud 

How  long  shall  virtue  flee? 
The  lightning  loves  the  evening  cloud, 

And  I  love  thee. 

The  breeze  moves  slow  with  thick  perfume 

From  every  mango  grove; 
From  coral-tree  to  parrot  bloom  * 

The  black  bees  questing  rove: 
The  koil  wakes  the  early  dawn, — 

He  calls  the  spring  all  day; 
The  jasmine  smiles  by  glade  and  lawn; 

The  lake  with  birds  is  gay. 
Come,  Krishna !.  leave  Vaskunthas'  ^  bower; 

Do  thou  our  refuge  be; 
The  koiil  loves  the  mango  flower, 

And  I  love  thee. 

Low  from  the  brink  the  waters  shrink; 

The  deer  all  snuff  for  rain ; 
The  fainting  cattle  search  for  drink 

Cracked  glebe  and  dusty  plain; 

1  Kalindl  is  the  daughter  of  the  Sun. 

^  The  silk  cotton-tree — a  mass  of  red  blossom  before  its  leaves  come. 

^  Krishna  was  an  incarnation  of  Vishnu. 

*  An  orange  scarlet  pea-flower — thought  like  the  parrot's  beak. 

^  The  heaven  of  Vishnu. 


326  Song  of  Kalindi 

The  whirlwind  h'ke  a  furnace  blast, 

Sweeps  clouds  of  darkening  sand ; 
The  forest  flames;  the  beasts  aghast 

Plunge  huddling  from  the  land. 
Come,  Krishna !  come,  beloved  one ! 

Descend  and  comfort  me: 
The  lotus  loves  the  summer  sun, 

And  I  love  thee. 

With  dancing  feet  glad  peafowl  greet 

Bright  flash  and  rumbling  cloud; 
Down  channels  steep  red  torrents  sweep; 

The  frogs  give  welcome  loud ; 
From  branch  and  spray  hang  blossoms  gay; 

The  wood  has  second  birth; 
No  stars  in  skies,  but  lantern-flies 

Seem  stars  that  float  to  earth. 
Come,  Krishna !  come,  in  our  day  of  gloom 

Be  thou  our  Kalfa  ^  tree; 
The  wild  bee  loves  the  Paska  ^  bloom. 

And  I  love  thee. 

The  skies  are  bright  with  cloudless  light, 

Like  silver  shells  that  float; 
The  stars  and  moon  loom  large  by  night; 

The  lilies  launch  their  boat; 
Fair  laughs  the  plain  with  ripened  grain; 

With  birds  resounds  the  brake; 
Along  the  sand  white  egrets  stand ; 

The  wild  fowl  fill  the  lake. 
Come,  Krishna!  come,  let  thy  servants  soon 

Thy  perfect  beauty  see; 
The  water-lily  loves  the  moon,-"^ 

And  I  love  thee. 

The  morning  mist  lies  close  and  still ; 

The  hoar  frost  gems  the  lea; 
The  dew  falls  chill,  the  wind  blows  shrill; 

The  leaves  have  left  the  tree; 

'  Tree  of  heaven  which  grants  every  wish. 

*  The  white  lotus. 

'  The  white  water-lily  opens  its  blossoms  by  night. 


The  Lamentation  of  Aga  327 

The  cups  are  gone;  tlie  fields  are  bare; 

The  deer  pass  grazing  by ; 
And  plaintive  through  the  twilight  air 

Is  heard  the  curlew's  cry. 
Come,  Krishna !  comC;,  my  lord,  my  own ! 

From  prison  set  me  free; 
The  Chakravaki  ^  pines  alone 

As  I  for  thee. 


THE  LMfENTATION  OF  AGA 
(From  the  Raghuvansa,  a  Chronicle  of  Ragku's  line.) 

King  Aga,  son  of  Raghu  and  grandfather  of  Rama,  was  married  to  a 
nymph  enchanted  to  the  form  of  a  princess.  Her  spell  was  to 
cease  when  she  met  the  flowers  of  her  native  paradise.  When 
the  king  and  queen  were  walking  in  a  wood  Narada  passed  and  a 
gust  of  wind  carried  his  garland  to  the  queen,  on  which  she 
swooned  and  died. 

My  own,  my  loveliest, 
I  clasp  thee  to  my  breast, 

A  lute  with  chords  unstrung; 
Hushed  is  thy  music  tone. 
An  evening  lotus  lone. 
No  bee  to  murmur  deep  its  snowy  leaves  among, 

Hath  beauty  power  to  slay? 
Loved  blossoms  sweet  and  gay 

Destroy  that  perfect  form  ? 
Ay !  softest  natures  oft 
Death  smitest  with  weapons  soft; 
Snow-rills  the  lotus  kill  which  braved  the  pelting  storm. 

Then  wreath  of  vakul  sweet 
Remaineth  incomplete, 

We  plaited  hand  in  hand; 
Thou  didst  begin  the  rite 
These  graceful  trees  to  unite,^ 
But  now  their  yearning  boughs  must  long  unwedded  stand. 

1  Brahmin  duck — Indian  emblem  of  conjugal  affection. 
*  It  was  a  favourite  amusement  of  Hindu  ladies  to  arch  by  a  marriage 
ceremony  two  trees  in  their  garden. 


328  The  Lamentation  of  Aga 

The  Ashokas'  ^  fertile  shoot, 
Of  thy  sweet  touch  the  fruit, 

Its  flower  above  thee  weeps; 
I  thought  to  bind  thy  hair 
With  these  blossoms  red  and  fair; 
How  can  they  deck  the  pyre  whereon  my  darling  sleeps? 

The  Chakravaka  ^  soon 
Rejoins  his  mate;  the  moon 

Brings  joy  once  more  to  night; 
These  wait  and  trust,  but  I 
Look  vainly  to  the  sky, 
Which  mocks  my  kisses  with  winds  that  wave  thy  ringlets 

light. 

The  tinkling  girdle  pressed 
So  close  thy  gentle  breast. 

It  knew  each  secret  beat; 
Now  on  thy  heart  it  lies. 
Silent  in  its  melodies, 
As  though  its  spirit  still  went  with  its  mistress  sweet. 

A  bitter  tear-mixed  draught 
Must  by  thy  shade  be  quaffed 

For  wine  of  glad  desire ; 
A  couch  of  leaves  new-spread 
Was  once  too  harsh  a  bed ; 
How  will  thy  tender  limbs  endure  the  cruel  pyre? 

Thy  voice  the  koils  ^  show. 
Thy  timid  glance  the  doe, 
To  lighten  my  distress; 
The  swans  thy  stately  pace. 
The  wind-waved  boughs  thy  grace ; — 
But  these  are  not  my  love,  and  I  am  comfortless. 

My  light  is  ffed  to-day; 
My  glory  wanes  away; 

My  state  a  joyless  throne; 
My  songs  henceforth  have  ceased; 
My  year  is  void  of  feast; 
My  brave  array  is  lost;  my  couch  is  dark  and  lone. 

*  Jossesia  asoca — said  to  flower  when  touched  by  a  lady's  hand. 

*  Brahmin's  duck.  ^  The  Indian  cuckoo. 


Translation  of  Burmese  Songs      329 

Had  I  offended  aught, 

Thy  gentle  heart  no  thought 

Of  anger  felt  to  me; 
Why  are  my  prayers  unheard? 
Without  one  farewell  word, 
To  leave  thine  only  love,  who  never  loved  but  thee ! 

Thy  friends  were  true  each  one; 
An  orbed  moon  thy  son; 

Thy  husband,  thine  through  life. 
Oh,  what  to  me  is  left, 
By  death  of  thee  bereft. 
The  partner  of  my  joys,  my  friend,  companion,  wife? 

William  Waterfield. 


TRANSLATION  OF  BURMESE  SONGS 

A  lover's  lament 

Hard  is  my  lot,  and  unassuaged  my  yearning. 
How  have  the  gods  ordained? 
(Wrap  well  my  robe  about  me,  for  I  shiver.) 
Distraught  with  sorrow,  on  my  gold-lacquer  couch 
Wildly  I  ask  myself,  Where  is  my  love,  my  glorious  jewel? 
Is't  in  the  round  heaven. 
Where  the  moon  spreads  his  beams  afar,  afar, 
Radiating, 
Radiating  over  all, 

Reaching  into  the  dimness  with  shimmering  waves? 
Under  a  load  of  grief  I  reel  and  swoon. 
Blinded,  dazed,  bowed  down  with  sorrow. 
With  remembrance  of  my  woe. 


IN  THE   FOREST 

The  place  is  dim  and  grey,  the  darkness  spreads: 
The  feet  of  cloudland  enter,  the  silver  mists  commingle. 
Sweet-smelling  zephyrs  whirl  and  kiss  each  other, 
And  many  a  flower  blossoms  in  the  glades. 


330 


Vale  ! 

Clusters  of  lilies  deck  the  way- 
Clusters  of  scented  lilies. 
But  that  I  yearn  for  is  not, 
And  I  am  weary:  yet  'tis  sweet — 
The  woods,  the  driven  mist  on  the  hillsides- 
'Tis  wondrous  sweet ! 


LOVE -DITTY 

Little  one,  whose  radiance  fills 

All  the  house  with  light: 
Dainty  form  that  daily  thrills 

Thy  lover  with  delight! 
Flashing  black  with  emerald  sheen 

Like  wing  of  humble-bee 
Tresses  trim  that  measure  sure 

Cubits  more  than  three! 
Pure  thou  art  as  gold  refined, 

Ne'er  a  blemish  thine: 
Thuza's  self  is  not  more  fair, 

Nor  Saddan's  form  divine. 
Smooth  limbs  with  beauty  graced: 
Swelling  bosom,  supple  waist: 

Not  Zabu  itself,  I  ween, 
That  enchanted  isle,  could  show, 
Searcht  from  end  to  end,  a  maiden 

Fairer  than  my  queen ! 

R.  Grant  Brown. 


VALE ! 

Farewell,  ye  rocks  of  sandstone; 

Farewell,  ye  sodden  Kioins  ;  ^ 
Ye  stately  toddy-palm  groves; 

Ye  shady  thayet-bi7is} 

Farewell,  ye  teak-tree  forests, 
That  fringe  the  fertile  plains; 

Farewell,  ye  rain-swept  mountains; 
Ye  dusty  village  lanes. 
1  Kwins  :  Fields.  "  Thayet-biiis  :  Mango  trees. 


Audi  et  Alteram  Partem  331 

Farewell,  ye  rocky  torrents; 

Ye  trickling  sandy  choungs  ; 
Farewell,  swift  Irrawaddy, 

The  home  of  racing  loimgs}- 

Farewell,  ye  gaudy  parrots ; 

Ye  sober  birds  that  pipe; 
Ye  iridescent  peacocks; 

Ye  jungle-fowl  and  snipe. 

Farewell,  sagacious  hathis^ 

That  toil  at  Kemmendine; 
Ye  gallant-hearted  ponies; 

Ye  patient  ploughing-kine. 

Farewell,  ye  gold  pagodas; 

Ye  bright  melodious  tees  ;  ^ 
Farewell,  ye  milk-white  temples 

Beneath  the  tamarind  trees. 

Farewell,  ye  laughing  maidens; 

The  sunshine  of  your  smiles 
Extends  across  the  oceans. 

Five  thousand  watery  miles! 


AUDI  ET  ALTERAM  PARTEM 

When  you  first  went  out  to  Burma, 

To  the  dust  and  glare  and  heat, 
Where  the  white  man's  food  is  garbage, 

And  the  moorghi  *  does  for  meat. 
You  abused  the  shrill  mosquito. 

You  anathematised  the  dJioop^ 
And  you  cursed  the  gentle  poochie  ^ 

For  expiring  in  your  soup. 

1  Loung  :  A  Burmese  racing  boat. 

2  Hathis  :  Elephants. 

^  Tee :  The  part  of  the  pagoda  from  which  the  bells  are  suspended. 

*  Moorghi :  Hind  for  fowl. 
^  Dhoop  :  The  sun. 

*  Poochie  :  An  insect. 


332  Audi  et  Alteram  Partem 

Refrain 

But  to-day  that  you  are  pensioned 

And  frequent  St.  James'  Square, 
You  revile  the  British  dimate 

With  its  cold  and  misty  air. 
You  complain  if  chicken  curry 

Ain't  upon  the  bill  of  fare; 
And  you  yearn  for  juicy  mangoes, 

And  a  jail  long-sleever  chair. 

You  remember  how  you  shivered 

(In  the  shade,  'twas  ninety-nine) 
When  malaria  turned  your  muscles 

Into  masticated  twine; 
When,  like  molten  lead,  the  fever 

Burned  its  way  along  your  veins, 
And  you  vowed  that  h-11  were  better 

Than  the  Delta  in  the  rains. 

Refrain 

But  to-day  that  you  are  pensioned 

And  frequent  St.  James'  Square, 
You  bewail  the  blinding  blizzard 

(Fit  to  freeze  a  polar  bear); 
Round  about  you  folks  are  ailing 

From  bronchitis  and  the  "  flue," 
And  you  sigh  for  sunny  Burma 

Where  no  blizzard  ever  blew. 

In  the  wild  archaic  eighties. 

When  you  chased  Boh  Nam-le-boo, 
On  Chicago  beef  and  biscuits, 

And  a  striker  miner's  "  screw," 
You  were  worked  until  you  sweated 

Like  a  coolie  in  the  Rand; 
And  you  cursed  the  day  you  travelled 

Out  to  "  India's  coral  strand." 

Refrain 

But  to-day  that  you  are  pensioned 
And  frequent  St.  James'  Square, 


A  Lay  of  the  Derby  Sweep         333 

You  step  gently  on  the  carpet 

And  select  the  cosiest  chair. 
Once  again  you  fight  your  battles — 

Draw  the  elongated  bow, 
And  declare,  "  The  good  old  days,  sir, 

They  have  gone  to  Jericho !  " 

All  alone  amidst  the  jungles, 

You  endured  an  exile's  Hfe; 
For  the  pay  that  Simla  grudged  you 

Would  not  let  you  take  a  wife; 
Sickly  rodents  squirmed  around  you, 

Plague  came  prowling  round  your  doors, 
And  you  prayed  the  gods  to  let  you 

Quit  those  pestilential  shores. 

Refrain 

But  to-day  that  you  are  pensioned 

And  frequent  St.  James'  Square, 
Vain  to  seek  for  boyhood's  comrades— 

They  have  "  climbed  the  golden  stair." 
Ah !  your  thoughts  drift  back  to  Burma, 

To  your  pals  a-toiling  there. 
To  the  Shwe  Dagon  at  sunset;  _ 

To — your  Judson's  dictionnaire ! 


A  LAY  OF  THE  DERBY  SWEEP 

''  Bengali  chap  "  was  Chandra  Dass, 
Loquacious,  lying,  and  an  ass; 
The  telegraphic  Babu  he 
At  calorific  Twinklegyi. 
Though  versed  in  all  Vedantic  lore. 
He  loved  Finance  a  great  deal  more. 
Like  Gunga  Din,  the  lust  of  pice 
Was  Chandra  D.'s  prevailing  vice. 


334         ^  Lay  of  the  Derby  Sweep 

One  day  he  thought  he'd  try  a  "  flutter," 

So  sent  an  order  to  Calcutta, 

And  bought  (he  deemed  it  far  from  cheap) 

A  ticket  in  the  Derby  Sweep. 

Oh,  wond'rous  are  the  ways  of  Fate ! 

His  ticket — number  978, 

With  nom  de  plume  "  A  Slave  of  Morse  " — 

Drew  Marmaduke,  the  favourite  horse. 

The  race  was  fixed  for  June  the  third. 

An  earlier  date  he'd  have  preferred, 

So  many  things  might  well  take  place 

Before  the  running  of  the  race. 

He  heard  (it  seemed  a  shame — a  sin) 

That  "  favourites  "  do  not  always  win; 

That  (worse ! )  they  sometimes  strain  the  heart, 

Or  sprain  a  limb  and  fail  to  "  start." 

Upon  the  first  of  steaming  June, 

A  telegram  came  from  Rangoon 

For  Mr.  Bland,  the  D.S.P. 

(The  message  passed  through  Chandra  D.): 

"  Fear  Marmaduke,  when  jumping  wall, 

Has  injured  knee — a  nasty  fall ; 

Impossible  to  start  on  third." 

Thus  ran  the  wire  (a  "  State  deferred!  ") 

When  Chandra  Dass  this  message  read. 
He  beat  his  breast,  and  bowed  his  head; 
In  bitter  disappointment,  he 
Shed  saline  tears,  and  sweated  ghee. 
Then  falling  on  his  knees,  he  prayed: — 
"  Oh !  Vishnu,  I  implore  thy  aid, 
I  cannot  win ;  assist  me  then 
To  save  my  stake  of  rupees  ten." 

This  abject  plea  moved  Brahma's  sire 

The  doleful  suppliant  to  inspire. 

Who  straightway  called  his  peon  Ko  Poo, 

A  cooly  lout — a  mere  Yahoo. 

Said  Chandra:   "  Man,  I  owe  you  pay — 

Your  stipend  for  the  month  of  May. 

To  square  my  debts  I  never  fail: 

I'll  pay  you  now  upon  the  nail. 


A  Lay  of  the  Derby  Sweep  335 

"  Well,  here's  the  coin.    I  must  remark 
Of  pity  you  have  not  a  spark. 
Does  not  your  wife,  at  Sandoway, 
Deserve  a  portion  of  your  pay? 
The  sum — let's  say — of  ten  rupees 
Your  faithful  wife  would  surely  please. 
You  nod  your  head.    Ah !  you  agree 
To  do  this  act  of  charity. 

"  Now,  if  by  hand,  this  sum  you  send, 
You  may  be  swindled  by  your  friend ; 
On  money  orders  sent  by  post, 
Commission  is  an  extra  cost. 
So  swap  with  me  this  Turf  Club  ticket 
For  ten  rupees.    You  simply  stick  it 
Within  a  cover,  which  you'll  post. 
The  postage  costs  two  pice  at  most. 

"  You  nod  your  head.     I  clearly  see 
That  you,  once  more,  agree  with  me. 
But,  lest  you  some  distrust  might  feel, 
In  front  of  witnesses  we'll  deal. 
So  that  by  neither  can  be  said 
This  covenant  was  never  made." 
To  terminate  this  patchwork  screed, 
Suffice  it  that  Ko  Poo  agreed. 

•  •  •  •  • 

Upon  the  third  the  race  was  run. 
And  Marmaduke,  the  "  favourite,"  won! 
The  Babu  could  not  understand 
Until  he  saw  wee  Marmie  Bland, 
Who,  when  he  came  to  Twinklegyi, 
Still  slightly  hmped  upon  one  knee! 
'Twas  then  he  twigged  (in  racing  "  gup  ") 
How  he  had  sold  himself  a  pup. 

Envoi 

Ko  Poo  scooped  in  a  lakh  or  two; 

He  owns  an  oil-field  at  Singu, 

While  Chandra  Dass  (he  might  do  worse) 

Is  still  a  toiling  "  Slave  of  Morse!  " 

M.  C.  Conway  Poole. 


33^ 


Perfide  Albion 


PERFIDE  ALBION 

(A  hitherto  unwritten  chapter  of  Oriental  History) 

Did  you  e'er  meet  a  Gaul,  patriotic  in  ton, 
Who  didn't  call  England  "  perfide  Albion  "  ? 
If  you  haven't  as  yet,  you  are  certain  to  hear  him 
Whenever  you  mention  the  taking  of  Perim. 
This  Perim's  an  island 

Devoid  of  a  tree, 
A  baked  bit  of  dry  land 

Below  the  Red  Sea. 
No  Government  owned  it 

A  few  years  ago, 
Till  Great  Britain  boned  it. 

As  soon  I  shall  show. 
It's  dreadfully  rocky,  and  frightfully  hot, 
And  out  of  it  not  e'en  a  weed's  to  be  got. 
In  fact,  upon  islands  at  large  it's  a  blot. 
And  I'd  rather  be  shot 
Than  be  told  that  my  lot 
Was  to  dwell  on  that  desolate,  desolate  spot. 

But  it  stands  in  a  strait  at  the  Red  Sea's  mouth, 

Commanding  the  passage  or  North  or  South; 

And  should  matters  in  Eastern  parts  ever  be  critical, 

Perim  might  prove  of  some  value  political. 

At  all  events  this  was  the  statesmanlike  view 

That  was  taken  by  each  diplomatic  Mossoo. 

"  Ne  possedent-ils  pas  Aden,  ces  Anglais,  mon  Dieu ! 

Oui ;  nous  aurons  Perim :  Pourquoi  non  ?  Sacre  bleu ! 

This  was  what  the  Bureaux  designate  une  idee, 
And  the  next  thing  to  do  was  to  make  it  unfail. 
That's  the  usual  course  in  affairs  Continental 
So  why  not  adopt  it  in  things  Oriental? 

"  Ces  Anglais  "  might  swear. 

Crying  out  'twas  unfair. 

And  a  robbery  bare; 
And  The  Times  in  a  leader  might  offer  a  prayer 
For  a  country  so  greedy  and  mad  as  to  dare 


»j 


Perfide  Albion  337 

To  maraud  in  the  East,  for  the  world  was  aware 

That  the  East  was  Old  England's  peculiar  care; 

And  The  Times,  as  The  Times,  would  have  Frenchmen  beware, 

For  that  Perim  might  prove,  after  all,  but  a  snare. 

Entailing  an  outlay  they  couldn't  well  spare; 

That  France  had  already  far  more  than  her  share — 

Bourbon,  Pondicherrey,  and  Chandemagore — 

And  'twas  monstrous  to  think  she  could  want  any  more; 

That  other  encumbrance  might  drain,  couldn't  better  her. 

And  the  sooner  she  dropped  it — et  caetera,  et  caetera  1 

Thus  argued  Mossoo 

That  Old  England  would  do; 
But  he  added  a  pregnant  corollary  too: 

"  Let  her  talk  if  she  likes. 

She  looks  fierce,  never  strikes. 
For  John  Bull  is  the  servant  of  Mr.  Bill  Sikes. 
She  may  swagger  and  bluster,  and  warn  us,  but  we 
Will  inform  her  the  thing  is  unjait  accompli ; 

And  you'll  probably  see 

That,  although  very  hurt. 

She  will  let  matters  be. 

And  will  swallow  the  dirt." 


The  project  thus  having  been  carefully  hatched, 

"  Un  ordre  "  was  to  Bourbon  or  somewhere  despatched 

Telling  Monsieur  le  Chef  to  send  off  a  fast  frigate 

To  Perim  and,  ere  that  the  British  could  twig  it. 

To  hoist  the  French  drapeau  upon  it  and  prig  it. 

So  a  frigate  was  sent 

With  this  wicked  intent, 
And  with  gaudy  new  drapeaux  was  heavily  laden; 

And  the  ship  on  her  way 

Just  put  in  for  a  day 
At  the  British  adjacent  possession  of  Aden. 

Now,  of  course,  what  the  role 
She  should  play  or  the  goal 
She'd  in  view  not  a  soul 
On  this  freebooting  ship 
Gave  the  slenderest  tip; 
She  might  have  been  trying  to  find  the  South  Pole. 


338 


Perfide  Albion 


The  sailors  were  feted, 

And  some  got  elated, 
And  Frenchmen  and  English  a — malgamated. 

But  never  a  word 

Of  their  mission  was  heard. 
And  this  silence  you'd  think  neither  strange  nor  absurd 
When  I  tell  you  that  none  of  them  knew.     It  was  wrapped  in 
The  innermost  cell  in  the  breast  of  the  Captain, 
The  name  of  the  Captain  was  Naucois  de  IBonheur, 
Of,  I  hardly  need  say  so,  le  Legion  d'honneur  ; 
And  our  Gov'nor's  name  was  Sir  Thomas,  he 
Being  (a  va  sans  dire,  a  distinguished  C.B. 
The  latter  invited  the  Captain  to  dine. 
And  placed  on  his  board  some  uncommon  good  wine. 
Now,  whether  'twas  due  to  the  port  or  the  sherry, 

A  high  seasoned  fare, 

Or  British  "  portare," 

Or  the  tropical  air, 

I  cannot  declare ; 
But  somehow  or  other  they  grew  pretty  merry. 
Sir  John  Thomas,  rising,  rejoiced  beyond  measure, 
In  fact  it  was  hard  to  express  all  his  pleasure. 

To  see  at  his  table 

So  gallant  and  able, 

So  brave  and  devoted, 

So  noble  and  noted, 
A  sailor  of  France  as  the  guest  on  his  right. 
And  he  felt  with  a  kind  of  prophetic  foresight 
That  the  object — he  hoped  they'd  excuse  the  remark — 
The  object  they  kept  so  remarkably  dark — 
Be  it  fishing  for  turtles  or  finding  new  seas. 
Or  searching  the  East  for  proscribed  refugees, 
Or  trying  a  gun  on  some  beggarly  village. 
Or  practising  hands  at  a  wee  bit  of  pillage. 
Would,  unless  some  unfortunate  accident  dished  it. 
Be  crowned  with  the  thorough  success  that  he  wished  it. 

Then  the  gallant  Mossoo, 
With  his  hand  on  his  star. 
Said,  "  1  tank  you,  parblcu ! 
Varee  moash,  de  ma  part; 
C'est  defendu  de  dire, 


Perfide  Albion  339 

Ce  que  nous  allons  faire, 

J'ai  jure  par  I'Empire 

Ma  patrie  et  ma  mere, 
Mais  .  .  .  "  perhaps  'twas  the  port  had  relaxed  his  discretion, 

Perhaps  he  conceived 

We'd  be  better  deceived 
By  a  make-show  of  candour,  a  touch  of  confession; 
Perhaps  he  felt  sure  'twas  too  late  in  the  day 
To  matter  if  now  he  disclosed  le  secret ; 
However  it  came  about,*this  much  is  certain, 
He  raised  for  a  moment  a  bit  of  the  curtain. 

For  he  went  on  to  say, 

In  a  roundabout  way, 
That  although  'twasn't  proper  to  flash  his  objet, 
He  was  bound,  in  his  quest  of  it,  up  the  Red  Sea; 
To  some  place  which  was  only  conjectured  to  be; 
That  he  hadn't  in  view  any  war  or  alliance. 
That  his  mission  was  purely  connected  with  science ; 
And  that  simply  to  fill  up  a  page  in  his  log. 
And  look  at  a  shore,  which  to  him  was  "  incog.," 
He  intended  to  order  his  master  to  steer  him. 
En  -passant,  quite  close  to  the  island  of  Perim. 

Then  he  grew  sentimental,  and  red  in  the  face. 

And  smothered  an  aide-de-camp  in  an  embrace, 

And  swore  he  thought  Aden  a  glorious  place. 

And  kissed  "  Sir  Jhon  Thomars  "  (who  made  a  grimace), 

And  called  that  brave  soldier  a  vare  joli  tar 

And  wound  it  all  up  with  a  "  heep,  heep,  hourah !  " 

At  the  mention  of  Perim,  Sir  John  nearly  rose 

From  his  chair,  but  recovered  by  blowing  his  nose. 

He  blew  it  a  good  twenty  minutes  at  least. 

And  appeared  to  have  done  himself  good  when  he  ceased. 

For  there  seemed  something  like  to  a  wink  in  his  eye. 

As  he  whispered  some  words  to  an  aide  sitting  by; 

Which  aide,  when  he  heard,  looked  half  funny  half  grave 

As  a  man  meditating  a  pun  or  a  shave ; 

Stole  a  glance  at  the  captain,  then  one  at  Sir  John, 

Then  seemed  most  intently  the  ceiling  to  con; 

Then  stared  in  his  wine-glass  right  down  to  the  bottom 

As  though  there  were  flies  in  his  wine,  he'd  got  'em: 


340  Perfide  Albion 


Then  fidgeted  jerkily  looking  behind, 
As  if  to  skedaddle  occurred  to  his  mind: 
Then  finally  vanished  in  haste  from  his  chair, 
As  if  he'd  the  toothache  or  needed  fresh  air. 

When  he  got  well  outside, 

Where  the  darkness  could  hide. 
He  walked  down  the  hill  out  of  sound  of  the  revel, 

Then  his  cap  up  he  shied, 

And  he  laughed  till  he  cried. 

Then  he  took  to  his  legs  and  he  ran  like  the  d 1 — 

Ran  till  he  stood,  void  of  breath,  on  the  poop 

Of  a  nice  little  tight  little  British  war-sloop; 

And  the  message  he  gave,  amid  roars,  to  the  skipper 

Was,  just  as  that  worthy  expressed  it,  a  clipper. 

The  night  was  still  young  when  the  snug  little  ship 

Left  Aden  as  on  some  mysterious  trip; 

And  the  aide  saw  the  rock  sinking  down  to  a  speck, 

As  he  danced  an  expressive  pas  seul  on  the  deck. 

The  feed  came,  of  course,  like  all  feeds,  to  a  close. 

Potations  concluded,  the  Frenchmen  all  rose. 

There  were  farewells  ecstatic,  embracings  convulsive, 

And  kisses — eugh!  slobberings,  that  is  the  word: 

Sir  John  thought  le  Capitaine  highly  repulsive, 

Le  Capitaine  thought  Sir  John  highly  absurd; 

But  they  hugged  and  they  shrugged, 

And  parted  in  sorrow, 

And  spoke  very  huskily  both  of  the  morrow, 

As  if  it  would  dawn  on  twin  hearts  rudely  cleft. 

And  it  wasn't  all  humbug  and  over  the  left. 

Well  the  morrow  did  dawn,  and  the  jaunty  French  ship, 

At  the  first  streak  of  light  gave  her  moorings  the  slip. 

De  Bonheur  arose  too  betimes  from  his  bed. 

With  a  dolorous  sense  of  possessing  a  head. 

But  he  said  to  himself  as  he  fixed  his  two  eyes  on 

The  island  of  Perim,  just  on  the  horizon — 

"  Sir  John  Thomas,  when  he  shall  hear  of  my  prize, 

Will  possess  a  head  too,  and  will  flatter  my  eyes." 

Then  his  sabre  he  buckled, 

And  swaggered  and  chuckled, 
And  got  the  new  drapeaux  all  out  of  the  hold, 


Perfide  Albion  341 

And  ordered  the  gunners, 
To  fire  off  some  stunners 
That  the  glory  of  France  might  be  properly  told. 

Soon  the  desolate  shore 

Topped  the  waves  more  and  more, 

Till  the  land,  red  and  bare 

In  the  pitiless  glare, 

Became  clear  to  the  view 

Of  the  gallant  Mossoo. 
He  balanced  himself  with  his  glass  and  looked  out. 
And,  after  a  pause,  put  it  down  as  in  doubt! 
Looked  again:   took  his  mouchoir  and  polished  his  lens; 
Looked  again:  pitched  it  down  and  took  one  of  his  men's; 
Looked  again:  blew  his  nose,  rubbed  his  eyes,  and  once  more 
Took  a  long  steady  look — same  result  as  before. 
Laid  it  down,  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  swore. 
He  sacre-bleu-ed  awful  a  minute  or  so, 
And  tapped  at  his  brow  as  he  paced  to  and  fro, 
As  if  he  half  dreaded  his  brains  had  got  loose, 
Or  some  fiend  with  his  vision  was  playing  the  deuce. 
At  length,  somewhat  calmed,  he  returned  to  the  charge, 
This  time  with  a  telescope  wonderfully  large. 
He  looked :  let  it  fall :  stared  to  landward  a  bit 
With  protruding  blank  eyes,  and — fell  down  in  a  fit. 

And  now,  gentle  reader,  it's  time  that  you  knew 

What  horrors  had  burst  on  le  Capitaine's  view. 

On  a  ridge  on  the  island,  which  highest  appeared, 

A  pretty  tall  flagstaff  was  solidly  reared. 

So  tall  'twould  have  certainly  shamed  all  the  trees 

Had  there  been  any  there ;  and  afloat  on  the  breeze 

Streamed  the  swelling  expanse  of  the  glorious  old  flag, 

Which  English  affection  and  slang  call  "  the  Rag." 

While  beneath,  hat  in  hand,  were  a  group  of  Jack  tars, 

Engaged  evidently  in  shouting  hurrahs ; 

And  astride  on  a  rock,  'neath  an  umbrella's  shade. 

Like  the  Sprite  on  the  Scene,  our  acquaintance  the  aide. 

Thus  Perim  was  won. 

And  the  Frenchmen  were  done, 

And  if  a  bit  shabbv, 

'Twas  very  good  fun.  Aliph  Cheem. 


342  The  Shores  of  Nothing 


THE  SHORES  OF  NOTHING 

There's  a  little  lake  that  lies 
In  a  valley,  where  the  skies 
Kiss  the  mountains  as  they  rise 

On  the  crown; 
And  the  heaven-born  elite 
Are  accustomed  to  retreat 
From  the  pestilential  heat 

Lower  down. 

When  the  mighty  for  a  space 
Mix  with  beauty,  rank,  and  grace 
(I  myself  was  in  the  place 

At  my  best!) 
And  the  atmosphere's  divine, 
While  the  deodar  and  pine 
Are  particularly  fine 

For  the  chest. 

And  a  little  month  ago, 
When  the  sun  was  lying  low, 
And  the  water  all  aglow 

Like  a  pearl, 
I,  remarkably  arrayed. 
Dipped  an  unobtrusive  blade 
In  the  lake — and  in  the  shade — 

With  a  girl. 

0,  'twas  pleasant  thus  to  glide 
On  the  "  softly-flowing  tide  " 
(Which  it's  not! ),  and,  undescried. 

Take  a  hand 
In  the  sweet,  idyllic  sports 
That  are  known  in  such  resorts, 
To  the  sympathetic  snorts 

Of  the  Band. 

Till  when  o'er  the  "  still  lagoon  " 
Passed  the  golden  afternoon, 


"  Kal  "  343 

The  preposterous  bassoon, 

Growling  deep, 
Saved  the  King  and  knelled  the  day 
As  the  crimson  changed  to  grey 
And  the  little  valley  lay 

Half  asleep. 

It  is  finished.    She  was  kind, 
"  Out  of  sight  is  out  of  mind," 
But  the  taste  remains  behind 

(And  the  bills). 
And  I'd  give  the  world  to  know 
If  there's  some  one  else  in  tow 
With  my  love  (a  month  ago) 
In  the  Hills ! 

0  ye  valleys,  tell  me,  pray, 
Was  she  on  the  lake  to-day  ? 
Does  she  foot  it  in  the  gay 

Social  whirl? 
0  ye  mountains  of  Gilboa, 
Send  a  bird,  or  kindly  blow  a 
Breeze  to  tell  me  all  you  know  a- 

Bout  that  girl ! 


"  KAL  "  i=TO-MORROW 

Sweet  word,  by  whose  unwear}nng  assistance 

We  of  the  ruling  race,  when  sorely  tried. 
Can  keep  intrusive  persons  at  a  distance 

And  let  unreasonable  matters  slide ; 
Thou  at  whose  blast  the  powers  of  irritation 

Yield  to  a  soft  and  gentlemanly  lull 
Of  solid  peace  and  flat  Procrastination, 

These  to  thy  praise  and  honour  good  old  Kal ! 

For  we  are  greatly  plagued  by  sacrilegious 
Monsters  in  human  form,  who  care  for  naught 

Save  with  incessant  papers  to  besiege  us, 
E'en  to  the  solemn  hour  of  silent  thought; 

*  Kal-ao=return  to-morrow;  Kal-lao=bring  it  back  to-morrow, 
each  of  which  phrases  is  the  euphemistic  equivalent  of  Jao — "  go  away 
(and  stay  there)." 


344  Lanka 

They  draw  no  line,  the  frightful  joy  of  giving 
Pain  is  their  guerdon;  but  for  Thee  alone 

Life  would  be  hardly  worth  the  bore  of  living, 
No  one  could  call  his  very  soul  his  own. 

But  in  thy  name  th'  unfortunate  besetter 

Meets  a  repelling  force  that  none  can  stem ; 
Varlets  may  come  (they  do)  and  go  (they'd  better!), 

Kal  is  the  word  that  always  does  for  them ! 
To-morrow  they  may  join  the  usual  muster; 

To-day  shall  pass  unnotably  by; 
Beelzebub  Himself  for  all  his  bluster 

Would  get  the  same  old  sickening  reply. 

And  for  thine  aid  in  baffling  the  malignant. 

Who  with  unholy  art  conspire  to  see 
Our  ease  diseased,  our  dignity  indignant, 

We  do  thee  homage  on  bended  knee. 
And  I  would  add  a  word  of  common  gratitude 

To  those  thy  coadjutors,  ao  and  lao, 
Who  take  with  Thee  th'  uncompromising  attitude 

From  which  the  dullest  mind  deduces  Jao. 

DuM  DUM. 


LANKA  (CEYLON) 

In  that  fair  Isle  for  pearls  renown'd, 
Where  lustrous  gems  far-famed  are  found ; 
Where  quartz-formed  snow-white  sand-plains  yield 
Rich  spice  from  fragrant  laurels^  peel'd; 
Where  as  with  emerald  girdle  bound 
The  shore  with  palms  is  belted  round; 
Where  inland  strewn  lie  relics  vast. 
Proud  monuments,  that  ages  past 
Were  built,  while  time  should  be,  to  last; 
Where  legends  venerable  declare 
Abode  mankind's  primeval  pair, 
Adam  with  Eve,  surpassing  fair; 
Where,  in  grand  Indian  epic  old 
Which  rings  of  feats  and  exploits  bold, 
1  The  Laurus  cinnamomum. 


The  Knuckles  345 

In  times  when  gods  of  men  were  made, 

Scenes  that  with  interest  thick  are  laid; 

When  Sita  from  her  loved  land  lured, 

Ravana  Demon-King  immured, 

Till,  aided  by  Saguva's  train, 

Rama  the  ravisher  had  slain; 

Where,  when  with  wisdom  glorious  shone 

King  Solomon  on  Israel's  throne. 

Her  merchants  came  in  quest  of  gold 

In  ships  with  Tyrian  crews  enroll'd; 

Where  Gautama,  the  Prince  and  Sage, 

And  man  most  wondrous  of  his  age. 

The  Bhuddist  faith  implanted  firm 

Long  ere  commenced  the  Christian  term ; 

Where,  eras  ere  the  Norman  slew 

Harold,  and  Britain  brought  to  rue, 

Wijaya,  with  his  warlike  horde. 

Outlaws  from  Ind,  by  force  or  fraud 

A  monarchy  supreme  had  gain'd 

Where  since  eight-score-five  kings  have  reign'd; 

Where  centuries  past  the  Iberian  race 

'Neath  flags  of  Portugal  found  place. 

Till  from  each  stronghold  both  were  hurl'd, 

And  Holland's  standard  proud  unfurl'd, 

To  float  thrice  fifty  years,  then  droop 

And  vanish  at  Britannia's  swoop: — 

O'er  all  that  Isle  Ceylon  yclept 

Where  Kandian  kings  their  thrones  had  kept 

And  sceptres  held  against  the  clutch 

Alike  of  Portuguese  and  Dutch, 

The  Mistress  of  the  Sea  her  sway 

Now  holds ;  her  mandates  all  obey. 


THE  KNUCKLES  1 

(A  Mountainous  District  in  the  North-east  of  Ceylon) 

Due  East,  majestical  uprise 
And  spread  their  summits  to  the  skies 
In  group  that  mark'd  resemblance  points 
To  a  clench'd  hand's  protruding  joints, 
1  Written  in  1868. 


34^  T"he  Knuckles 

The  "  Knuckles  " — hills  with  contour  grand 
Embosoming  a  fairy  land. 
The  district  thus  distinctive  named 
Here  as  in  horse-shoe  form  is  framed, 
Each  heel  a  massive  mountain  steep 
Scarp'd  with  stern  precipices  deep; 
The  whole  a  vast  granite  screen 
Ere  o'er  whose  ridge  the  sun  is  seen, 
From  Ocean's  bed  that  orb  sublime 
The  eastern  slope  an  hour  must  climb, 
His  advent  heralding  with  rays 
On  far-off  western  peaks  that  blaze. 
Then  o'er  the  hills,  dales,  valleys,  streams, 
Sudden  pours  down  her  glowing  beams 
And  bathes  at  once  the  prospect  bright 
In  floods  of  vivifying  light. 

Not  many  an  island  scene  can  vie, 
Or  more  entrance  the  raptured  eye. 
Than  that,  outspread  as  on  a  map. 
Beheld  from  Battagalla  gap. 
From  this  high  stand  point,  all  around 
Rise  mountains  huge — drop  depths  profound- 
Spring  watercourses — streamlets  brawl — 
Rush  eyas  ^  here — there  cascades  fall — 
While  far  away,  like  ribands  red. 
Roads  o'er  the  hills  and  valleys  spread, 
And  built  on  many  a  charming  spot 
The  planters'  homes  the  landscape  dot. 

•  •  •  •  • 

The  elk  and  elephant  have  here 
In  forests  dense  their  coverts  drear, 
Harried  and  hunted  only  when 
They  trespass  on  the  haunts  of  men. 
Here,  with  his  grunting  brood,  the  boar 
Roams,  roots  about  with  savage  mien 
Watching,  and  whetting  his  curv'd  tusks  keen 
A  dangerous  brute:— with  visage  hoar 
Here  the  black  wanderoos  are  seen. 
Gambolling  on  the  foliage  green. 
But  soon  as  stranger's  form  they  pry, 
•  Streams. 


Rondeau  347 

As  swift  as  twinkling  of  an  eye, 

With  bellowing,  back  from  tree  to  tree 

They  bound,  and  far  his  presence  flee. 

Exuberant  in  every  form 

Springs  vegetation  here — moist,  warm 

The  atmosphere,  where  run  the  streams 

That  sparkle  in  the  sun's  bright  beams, 

Wide  scattering  spray — and  rich  the  tints 

Dame  Nature  lavishly  imprints 

On  grapes,  trees,  buds,  ferns,  and  flowers. 

With  which  her  kingdom  here  she  dowers. 

While  soaring  in  the  blue  serene 

Aerial  hunters  may  be  seen. 

Birds  of  the  swift-wing'd  falcon  tribe, 

That  sweeping  circles  vast  describe. 

Or  swoop  like  lightning  from  the  sky 

When  they  their  destin'd  prey  descry. 

These  at  this  height,  where  rarely  man 

Ventures  the  prospect  broad  to  scan, 

The  sense  of  solitude  reheve, 

And  bid  the  gazer  glad  receive 

Each  beauteous  view  that  eye  doth  strike. 

And  mind  and  heart  delight  aUke, 

While  from  the  vastness  of  the  whole 

Sense  of  sublime  steals  o'er  the  soul. 

William  Skeen. 


RONDEAU 

(By  Kandy  Lake) 

0  PLACID  lake !  I,  standing  nigh, 
Scarce  can  preserve  an  undimmed  eye. 
So  deep  thy  beauty.     On  thy  marge 
The  bamboo  shyly  bends.     At  large, 
Unchecked,  the  gracile  herons  fly 
Swift  skimming  o'er  thy  mimic  sky 
Of  blue  intense.     Bright  cloudlets  lie 

Athwart  the  bows  of  yon  brown  lurking  barge, 
0  placid  lake! 


34^  The  Taj  at  Agra 

Thy  hills  around  keep  ward  on  high, 
Meseems  they  say,  "  On  us  rely, 

0  turquoise  rare — our  sacred  charge  ; 

We  shall  present  a  stubborn  targe 
And  all  thy  jealous  foes  defy, 

0  placid  lake !  " 


J.  H.  S. 


GANESSA  THE  GOD 


Beside  the  dancing  of  the  eastern  waves, 

Straight-facing  towards  the  rising  sun,  arose 

Ganessa's  temple,  where  the  weary  god 

Sat  ever  listless  gazing  down  the  East, 

Watching  new  days  arise  from  paths  of  Time, 

All  changeful,  bringing  change  to  changing  worlds, 

Himself  alone  unchang'd,  dull,  pondering 

Upon  the  unsolved  mysteries  that  dawn'd 

From  out  the  cradle  of  the  mom  of  days. 

And  round  about  him,  jingled  charm  of  prayer 

Rose  mutter'd  meaningless  from  Brahmans  blind, 

Whose  eyes  turn'd  backward  to  the  old  dead  days, 

Seeing  no  dawn  of  newer  faith  arise; 

While  dancing  girls  around  the  old  god's  throne 

Wav'd  woven  arms  and  lissome  bodies  sway'd 

To  weird  low  music  through  dim  vaulted  aisles; 

But  on  them  all  the  god's  eye  lifeless  fell, 

He  heard  no  charm  of  woven  prayer  nor  dance, 

But  gaz'd  for  ever  down  the  weary  East. 

H.  W.  Green. 


THE  TAJ  AT  AGRA 

A  DREAM  in  marble — beauteous  as  a  dream  1 
The  dream  of  lovers,  whose  rich  fancies  gild 
The  happy  future  that  they  look  to  build 

Radiant  with  hope  and  true  love's  golden  gleam ! 

Pause,  thou  who  gazest  where  the  moon-rays  stream 
On  marble  gate  and  dome  and  minaret: 
Or  where  the  living  fountains  sparkle  yet, 


The  Tamil  Maid  349 

And  dance  in  brilliance  with  the  noon-day  beam. 
What  mean  these  cool  retreats,  these  gardens  fair, 
This  glory  by  the  banks  of  Jumna's  tide? 

Here  is  the  passion  of  a  heart  laid  bare, 

Knowing  love's  worth,  that  naught  was  worth  beside. 
And  here  too  breathes,  perchance,  a  calmer  air, 

Of  love  resign'd,  expectant,  sanctified. 

Bel. 

THE  TAMIL  MAID 

Where  through  the  jungle's  shade 
Men's  feet  a  path  have  made, 
Comes  a  tall  Tamil  maid 
Sauntering  slow! 

In  her  red  Sele  dressed 
Lightly  the  grass  she  pressed. 
And  the  glad  leaves  caressed 
Each  little  toe. 

Twined  is  her  long  black  hair 
On  neck  and  shoulders  bare; 
Her  ears  and  ankles  rare 
Gaily  bedight. 

Sunlight  her  bosom  warms 
Glancing  athwart  her  charms; 
Bangles  upon  her  arms 
Shine  silver-bright, 

Brown  are  her  lovely  eyes, 
Lit  with  a  sweet  surprise, 
Deep  as  the  shadow  lies 
Under  the  sea. 

Teeth  like  the  dews  of  morn 
Blithely  her  hps  adorn. 
Lips  with  a  look  half  scorn, 
Peerless  and  free. 

E.  C.  DUMBLETON, 


350  Kramat 


A  SANSKRIT  STANZA 

Loved  Lotus-blooms,  ail  white  and  red, 
On  silv'ry  streams  a  lustre  shed; 
And  in  their  beauty,  dear,  I  trace 
The  image  of  thy  lovely  face. 

In  Lotus-cups  of  azure  hue, 
I  see  thine  eyes,  bright,  beauteous,  blue; 
Thy  teeth  displayed  in  laughter  light 
Excel  the  fragrant  jasmine  white. 

Forth  shoot  the  leaf-buds,  ruby  red. 
On  velvet  verdure  grace  to  shed : 
But  these  despair  when  thou  art  nigh — 
Thy  lips  are  of  a  richer  dye. 

The  perfumed  champac,  I  declare. 
Can  scarcely  with  thy  charms  compare; 
Brahma  gave  thee  these  gifts,  I  own. 
But  why  made  he  thy  heart  of  stone? 

S.  Helen  Goonetillake. 


KRAMAT 

A  LONG-DRAWN  moan,  much  like  a  scream 

At  close;  then  hark! 
The  hum  and  hiss  of  unseen  winged  things 

In  forests  dark. 

Dull  music,  varied  by  the  cry 

Of  nightingale 
So  called,  her  whistling  shrieks  with  ghastly  laugh 

In  sinking  scale. 

No  fear  smote  Syed  upon  the  way 

For  things  like  these; 
His  watch-dog  following  trembled  as  he  heard 

The  rustling  trees. 


Malacca  351 

Out  sprang,  with  eyes  like  burning  lamps, 

And  seized  the  prey 
A  tiger,  sparing  Syed,  whom  nature  loved 

Nor  would  betray. 

For  he  no  bird  or  beast  e'er  vexed, 

Nor  did  of  old 
Sleman,!  God's  prophet,  better  understand 

What  their  speech  told. 

And  ever  the  scornful  song  of  that 

Sad  nightingale, 
Which  screams  of  broken  lives,  told  him  at  last 

Good  must  prevail, 

For  mockery  was  ofttimes  the  death 

Of  evil  things. 
Shaking  from  roof  to  base  the  House  of  Vain 

Imaginings. 

So  now  Seyd  called;   from  jungle  depths. 

In  his  lord's  name. 
The  tiger,  bidden  lay  his  booty  down. 

Submissive  came.^ 


MALACCA 

"  History  is  the  realisation  of  the  deeper  idea." — Hegel. 

City  which  calls  up  thoughts  of  Western  lands, 
Of  feudal  castles  on  a  German  steep. 

And  red-roofed  villages  on  sandy  coasts, 
Not  dreamless  is  thy  sleep. 

The  thoughts  of  many  men  have  passed  away, 
Who  lived  and  died  by  thy  deserted  beach, 

But  faith  and  love  appearing  on  the  earth 
Destruction  cannot  reach. 

1  Soloman,  called  Sleman  or  Suleiman  by  the  Malays.  Mohammedan 
legends  represent  him  as  "  having  heard  secrets  whenever  he  walked 
in  his  garden." 

^This  the  Malays  believe  to  have  been  an  actual  fact;  an  instance  of 
the  special  gift  which  is  represented  by  one  of  the  meanings  of  the  word 
Kramat,  and  which  they  suppose  certain  fairies  to  possess. 


352  The  Joys  of  Jamaica 

Long  since  there  fell  the  empire  centred  here 
In  car-borne  warriors  from  Hindustan; 

Now  of  their  pageants  and  their  fights  no  trace 
Remains  upon  the  plain  "  plan." 

But  on  the  hill-tops  stand  from  roofless  walls/ 
Memorials  of  a  nation  from  the  West, 

Which  came  long  since  thy  borders  to  subdue 
And  then  to  give  them  rest. 

The  vision  of  that  nation  haunteth  thee 
Carven  in  stone  of  thy  cathedral  wall, 

The  incarnation  of  the  strongest  thought, 
"  Peace  and  good-will  to  all." 

R.  Greentree. 


THE  WEST  INDIES 

In  waters  of  purple  and  gold 

Lie  the  islands  beloved  of  the  sun, 

And  he  touches  them  one  by  one. 

As  the  beads  of  a  rosary  told. 

When  the  glow  of  the  dawn  has  begun, 

And  when  to  Eternity's  fold 

Time  gathers  the  day  that  is  done. 

No  rosary!     Isles  of  the  West, 

Isles  Antillean  agleam. 

But  a  necklace  strung  out  on  the  breast 

Of  the  sea  breathing  low  in  a  dream. 

In  the  trance  of  a  passionate  rest, 

A  rainbow  afloat  in  its  stream. 


THE  JOYS  OF  JAMAICA 

Empress  of  all  the  Spanish  main, 
And  Queen  of  Antillean  isles. 

What  rival  may  dispute  thy  reign? 
What  traveller  resist  thy  smiles? 
'  A  Portuguese  cathedral  oq  which  is  an  inscription  to  Xavier. 


Songs  of  Kingston  City  353 

By  rivers  sway  the  fern  and  palm 

In  winding  valleys  richly  set, 
While  muffled  in  majestic  calm 

The  forests  stand  unravished  yet. 

Here  soars  the  massive  mountain  height, 

The  torrent  foams  along  the  glen, 
There  sweep  and  fade  in  golden  light 

Wide  palms  with  sustenance  for  men. 

And  over  and  around  all  these 

The  buoyant  trade  wind  softly  blows, 

It  bears  the  balm  of  southern  seas, 
Yet  cool  its  bracing  current  flows. 

Heaven  palpitates  alive  with  stars, 
Or  moonlight  holds  the  earth  in  trance, 

Our  soul  resents  its  prison  bars. 
Our  heart  yet  hungers  for  romance. 

H.   S.   BUNBURY. 


SONGS  OF  KINGSTON  CITY 

THE  MOTHERS   OF  THE   CITY 

What  is  the  noise  that  shuffles 

On  the  roads  that  lead  to  the  town, 

While  the  city  slumbers  deeply. 
While  the  hours  lie  dumbly  down? 

When  the  gas-lamps  talk  together 
As  they  sentry  the  empty  street. 

And  the  silence  barely  quivers 
To  the  passing  of  dead  men's  feet. 

Oh,  who  are  the  weary  pilgrims 
That  caravan  now  on  the  way? 

'Tis  the  burdened  market  women 
With  their  hampered  donkeys  grey. 


354  Songs  of  Kingston  City 

Through  the  dim  wan  mists  of  the  morning, 
They  come  who  have  travelled  far, 

On  the  long  white  roads  that  glimmer 
To  the  light  of  the  Morning  Star. 

On  their  feet  is  the  mud  of  the  roadway. 
Their  frocks  with  the  dust  is  soiled, 

Big  baskets  wrinkle  their  foreheads. 
From  afar  have  their  footsteps  toiled. 

They  have  dug  for  the  yam  and  the  yampie, 
They  have  gravelled  potato  hills, 

They  have  delved  the  red  clay  where  the  spider 
His  fangs  with  his  venom  fills. 

And  the  hot  noon  sun  has  dazed  them 
As  they  wrought  on  the  steep  hill-side, 

And  marshalled  their  rows  of  scallion 
Or  scattered  the  red  peas  wide. 

To  their  hoe-beat  sprang  the  echoes 

Where  the  dark  woods  round  them  swept; 

And  the  blows  of  their  wielded  cutlass 
Stirred  the  air  where  the  ages  slept. 

The  red  fire  spears  have  helped  them 
Drive  the  tangle  from  the  earth, 

As  they  nursed  her  in  her  labour 
For  the  crop-time's  coming  birth. 

They  rose  while  the  land  lay  sleeping 
In  the  silvery  moonlight  drest. 

And  their  shoulders  bowed  to  the  burden 
As  they  tramped  to  the  mountain  crest; 

As  they  trudged  again  to  the  valley. 
As  they  toiled  by  the  swampland's  edge, 

Where  the  frog  to  the  lizard  mutters 
In  the  ways  of  a  rank  green  sedge. 

And  they  heard  where  the  road  was  slipping 
The  rattle  of  landslides  go. 


The  North  to  the  South  355 

And  the  thud  of  the  ripened  mango 
In  the  far  dark  fields  below. 

To  cherish  her  son  does  a  mother 

Give  the  milk  of  her  life-pulse  born; 
These  come  as  the  city  mothers, 

Mud-daubed  in  the  ghost-grey  mom. 

To  pour  for  the  city  hunger 

The  milk  from  the  country's  breast, 

Like  a  mother  that  toils  and  labours 
That  her  baby  may  feed  and  rest. 

They  come  through  the  mist  of  morning, 
With  the  black  road  mud  on  their  feet. 

Some  trod  where  wild  hill  streams  thunder. 
And  some  where  sea-surges  beat. 

Through  the  grey  morn  come  the  mothers 

Of  the  city,  travelled  far. 
By  the  long  white  roads  that  glimmer 

To  the  light  of  the  Morning  Star. 

T.  Redcam. 


THE  NORTH  TO  THE  SOUTH 

When  something  leaves  one's  life — the  heavy  scent 
Of  southern  flowers,  weighted  down  by  dew; 

The  sensuous  sway  of  bending  palms — the  arch 
Of  noonday  skies,  one  broad  expanse  of  blue; 

The  simple  joy  of  living,  unperplexed 

By  life's  rough  battle  in  the  world's  mad  glare; 

The  low,  soft  sound  of  mountain  streams,  instead 
Of  horns  and  fifes  and  noisy  trumpets'  blare — 

Then  comes  the  stronger,  fiercer  joy  of  work — 
Hard  fight  and  struggle  'gainst  a  powerful  foe ; 

The  hail — the  driving  sleet — the  piercing  cold — 
The  winter's  chilling  ice  and  blinding  snow. 


356  Killin'  Nanny 

The  bitter  tonic  of  the  northern  winds 

Is  kinder  than  the  flowers'  sweet  perfume; 

And  gentler  than  the  southern  hght  and  warmth 
Is  all  the  cold,  the  darkness,  and  the  gloom. 


THE  SOUTH  TO  THE  NORTH 

Ah,  something  subtly  sweet  has  left  one's  life 
When  these  encircling  mountains  fade  from  view, 
And  all  the  palm-lined  shore  seems  strange  and  new 
As  outbound  ship  glides  far  upon  the  blue. 

The  deep,  bewildering  scent  of  Southern  flowers. 
The  freshness  of  green  palms  that  ever  sway, 
The  dazzling  blue  of  skies  at  height  of  day — 
Something  has  gone,  when  these  are  gone  away. 

The  song  of  mountain  springs  is  rudely  hushed 
By  martial  tones  more  harsh  than  trumpets'  blare; 
A  lingering  fragrance  of  the  flowers  fair 
Is  crushed  by  the  sharp,  cruel  Northern  air. 

Life  seems  a  tract  of  moorland  bleak  and  grey. 
With  no  gleam  of  the  South's  rich  red  and  gold; 
Sharp,  piercing  winds  the  trembling  limbs  enfold. 
And  all  is  outer  darkness,  gloom,  and  cold. 

"  Tropica." 


KILLIN'  NANNY 

Two  little  pickny  is  watchin', 
While  a  goat  is  led  to  deat'; 

Dey  are  little  ones  of  two  years. 
An'  know  naught  of  badness  yet. 

De  goat  is  bawlin'  fe  mussy,^ 
Ajn'  de  children  watch  de  sight 

As  de  butcher  re'ch  ^  his  sharp  knife, 
An'  tab^  wid  all  his  might. 
Mercy  "  Reaches.  "  Stabs. 


Cudjoe  Fresh  from  de  Lecture       357 


Dey  see  de  red  blood  flowin'; 

An'  one  chil'  trimble  an'  hide 
His  face  in  de  mudder's  bosom, 

While  t'udder  look  on  wide-eyed. 

De  tears  is  fallin'  down  hotly 
From  him  on  de  mudder's  knee; 

De  udder  wid  joy  is  starin', 
An'  clappin'  his  ban's  wid  glee. 

When  dey  had  forgotten  Nanny, 
Grown  men  I  see  dem  again; 

An'  de  forehead  of  de  laugher 
Was  brand  ^  wid  de  mark  of  Cain. 


CUDJOE  FRESH  FROM  DE  LECTURE 

'Top  one  minute,  Cous'  Jarge,  an'  sit  do'n  'pon  de  grass, 
An'  mek  a^  tell  you  'bout  de  news  I  hear  at  las', 
How  de  buccra  te-day  tek  time  an'  begin  teach 
All  of  us  dat  was  deh^  in  a  clear  open  speech. 

You  miss  somet'ing  fe  true,  but  a  wi'  mek  you  know, 
As  much  as  how  a  can,  how  de  business  a  go : 
Him  tell  us  'bout  we  self,  an'  mek  we  fresh  ^  again, 
An'  talk  about  de  wuF  from  commencement  to  en'. 

Me  look  'pon  me  black  'kin,  an'  so  me  head  grow  big, 
Aldough  me  heaby  han'  defti  hab  fe  plug^  an'  dig; 
For  ebery  single  man,  no  car'  ^  about  dem  rank. 
Him  bring  us  ebery  one  an'  put  'pon  de  same  plank. 

Say,  parson  do  de  same  ?    Yes,  in  a  difJ'ren'  way, 
For  parson  tell  us  how  de  whole  o'  we  are  clay ; 
An'  lookin'  close  at  t'ings,  we  hab  to  pray  quite  hard 
Fe  swaller  wha'  him  say  an'  don't  t'ink  bad  o'  Gahd. 

1  Branded.  ^  Make  I=let  me.  ^  There. 

*Over:    meaning,  "  He  gave  us  a  new  view  of  our  origin,  and  ex- 
plained that  we  did  not  come  from  Adam  and  Eve,  but  by  evolution." 
'"  Plough.  *  Care:   no  matter  what  their  rank. 


35^       Cudjoe  Fresh  from  de  Lecture 

But  dis  man  tell  us  'traight  'bout  how  de  whole  t'ing  came, 
An'  show  us  widout  doubt  how  Gahd  was  not  fe  blame; 
How  change  cause  eberyt'ing  fe  mix  up  'pon  de  eart', 
An'  dat  most  hardship  come  t'rough  accident  o'  birt'. 

Him  show  us  all  a  sort^  o'  funny  'keleton, 
Wid  names  I  won't  remember  under  dis  ya  sun; 
Animals  queer  to  deat',^  dem  bone,  teet',  an'  headskull. 
All  dem  so  dat  did  live  in  a  de  ole-time  wul'. 

No  'cos  we  get  cuss  mek  fe  we  'kin  come  so. 
But  fe  all  t'ings  come  'quare,  same  so  it  was  to  go:^ 
Seems  our  Ian''*  must  ha'  been  a  bery  low-do'n  place, 
Mek  it  tek  such  long  time  in  tu'ning  out  a  race. 

Yes,  from  monkey  we  spring:  I  believe  ebery  wud; 
It  long  time  better  dan  f'go  say  we  come  from  mud: 
No  need  me  keep  back  part,  me  hab  not'  in'  fe  gain; 
It's  ebery  man  dat  born — de  buccra  mek  it  plain. 

It  really  strange  how  some  o'  de  Ian'  dem  advance; 
Man  power  in  some  ways  is  nummo  soso  chance ;  ^ 
But  suppose  eberyt'ing  could  tu'n  right  upside  down. 
Den  p'raps  we'd  be  on  top  an'  givin'  some  one  houn'.^ 

Yes,  Cous'  Jarge,  slabery  hot  fe  dem  dat  gone  befo' : 
We  gettin'  better  times,  for  those  days  we  no  know; ' 
But  I  t'ink  it  do  good,  tek  we  from  Africa 
An'  Ian'  us  in  a  blessed  place  as  dis  a  ya.^ 

Talk  'bouten  Africa,  we  would  be  deh  till  now, 
Maybe  same  half-naked — all  day  dribe  buccra  cow, 
An'  tearin'  t'rough  de  bush  wid  all  de  monkey  dem, 
Wile  an'  uncibilise',^  an'  neber  comin'  tame. 

*  All  sorts.  *  The  queerest  animals. 

*  It  is  not  because  vve  were  cursed  (Gen.  ix.  25)  that  our  skin  is  dark; 
but  so  that  things  mi^ht  come  square  there  had  to  be  black  and  white. 

*  Africa. 

'  No  more  than  piure  chance. 

"  Hound:   equivalent  to  the  English  slang  phrase  "  giving  some  one 
beans." 

'Do  not  know:   have  no  experience  of. 

'  This  here.  *  Wild  and  uncivilised. 


Cudjoe  Fresh  from  de  Lecture       359 

I  lef  quite  'way  from  wha'  we  be'n  deh  talk  about/ 
Yet  still  a  coundn'  help — de  wuds  come  to  me  mout'; 
Just  like  how  yeas'  get  strong  an'  sometimes  fly  de  cark, 
Same  way  me  feelings  grow,  so  I  was  boun'  fe  talk. 

Yet  both  horse  partly  2  runnin'  in  de  selfsame  gallop. 
For  it  is  nearly  so  de  way  de  buccra  pull  up : 
Him  say,  how  de  wul'  stan',  dat  right  will  neber  be, 
But  wrong  will  eber  gwon  ^  till  dis  wul'  en'  fe  we. 

Claude  McKay. 

^  I  have  run  right  away  from  what  we  were  talking  about. 
»  Almost.  3  Qo  on 


THE    TEMPLE    PRESS,    PRINTERS,    LETCHWORTH 


4 


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